After The Bell Rings

Chapter Twelve - The Echo And The Ache

Nick’s POV

I shouldn’t have gone to her room.

But I did.

And I shouldn’t have walked away half-hard, fully haunted, and still burning.

But I did that too.

I didn’t take her. Not because I didn’t want to—God, I wanted nothing more—but because the way she looked at me made it impossible. That kind of gaze… that kind of trust. I wasn’t built for it.

I left her bed aching, my jaw tight, my fists clenched in my pockets like they might keep me from turning back around.

But I didn’t go back.

Instead, I made a call.

“Amara.”

A pause. Then a breathy laugh. “Nick Reed. Didn’t think I’d hear from you again.”

“It’s not like that.”

“Then what’s it like?”

I hesitated, staring at the darkness outside my apartment window. “Are you free?”

She didn’t ask more questions. She never did.

Twenty minutes later, she was at my door—tight dress, smudged eyeliner, smirk in place. Amara was the kind of woman who knew what she wanted and didn’t pretend otherwise. We’d hooked up twice before, months apart, and each time we walked away like nothing happened.

Tonight was no different.

Except everything was.

I didn’t speak. Just stared.

“You look tense,” she murmured, placing her hands on my chest. Her fingers slid down my torso, slow, teasing. “Bad day?”

I grabbed her wrist, not hard, just enough. “Don’t talk.”

A thrill lit up in her eyes. She liked when I took control. Liked when I didn’t pretend we were anything more than what we were.

I backed her up against the wall, lips crashing onto hers like I needed to devour something—anything. Her mouth opened under mine instantly, tongue greedy, hands clawing at my shirt as she kissed me back with fever.

But it wasn’t her mouth I tasted.

It was Olivia’s.

It was always Olivia’s now.

Amara moaned as I bit her lip, hard enough to make her hiss. I dropped my hands to her thighs, lifting her effortlessly, and she wrapped her legs around my waist without breaking the kiss.

“f**k,” she whispered into my mouth, grinding against me. “You’ve been holding this in, haven’t you?”

I didn’t respond. Just moved, carrying her to the couch and throwing her down like I couldn’t wait another second. She sat up, breathless, reaching for my belt.

“I’ll make it better,” she whispered, sliding the leather free with practiced fingers. “I always do.”

Her mouth found my neck as she undid my jeans, kissing, nipping, licking the tension from my skin. I tilted my head back, letting her tongue trail over my jaw, but all I saw in my mind was Olivia’s flushed face.

The way she looked up at me when I touched her. The way her breath hitched like she didn’t understand what was happening—but wanted it anyway.

Amara climbed onto my lap, straddling me, rolling her hips slowly with a smirk. “God, you’re hard already.”

I grabbed her hips, fingers digging in. She ground down harder, letting out a throaty groan as our mouths met again—hotter, sloppier this time. She tasted like mint and wine. She felt like heat and chaos.

But she wasn’t soft like Olivia.

She didn’t tremble.

She didn’t gasp my name like it meant something.

I flipped her onto her back, pinning her wrists to the cushion. She bit her lip, grinning. “There’s the Nick I like.”

I kissed down her neck, over the hollow of her collarbone, yanking her dress down to expose her chest. No bra. Of course. She never made me wait.

I sucked a n****e into my mouth while my fingers slipped between her thighs, teasing, testing, making her moan and arch beneath me. She was already wet. Already ready.

But I wasn’t.

Because even now, even with her body under mine, Olivia’s voice played in my head.

“I’ve never… done this before.”

Her wide eyes. Her trembling breath.

I drove my fingers into Amara, rough and fast, and she cried out, clutching my arms, panting. Her nails dragged across my skin as she bucked her hips, chasing the pressure. “Harder,” she begged.

I gave it to her.

Not because I cared.

Because I needed to forget.

When she came, she screamed—loud and raw—but I didn’t stop. I undid my jeans and slammed into her in one brutal thrust. She clawed at me, wrapping her legs around my waist again, taking every inch, every thrust, every bit of frustration I poured into her.

But no matter how deep I went, it wasn’t enough.

Because I wanted softness, not sweat.

I wanted hesitation, not hunger.

I wanted Olivia.

And that thought alone nearly shattered me.

I pulled out before I could finish, standing, breath heavy, hands shaking. Amara sat up, confused, lips swollen and hair wild.

“What the f**k, Nick?”

I grabbed my shirt, not meeting her eyes. “I told you not to talk.”

Her voice was lower now. Sharper. “You didn’t finish.”

“Neither did you.”

Her laugh was dry. “Wow. Okay.”

She reached for her coat, brushing her hair back as she stood. “Next time, just use your hand and think of her. I’m not your f*****g substitute.”

“There won’t be a next time.”

She paused at the door, glanced back over her shoulder. “Didn’t think so.”

When she was gone, silence crashed down like a goddamn wave.

And Olivia’s name burned under my skin like a scar.

—————————————————————————————

Olivia’s POV

He left.

After everything—after touching me like I was glass, kissing me like he knew my bones—I thought… I don’t know. I thought it meant something.

But he walked out.

No call. No message. Not even a glance over his shoulder.

I sat in bed for hours, still feeling him on my skin, still tasting him in the back of my throat, waiting for something. A sign. A signal. An explanation.

Anything.

But nothing came.

And the silence was louder than anything he could’ve said.

Maybe I was wrong. Maybe I misread it. Maybe he stopped because I wasn’t enough. Because I froze. Because I’m too inexperienced. Too naïve. Too boring.

I’ve never done this before.

Not just the physical stuff. I’ve never let anyone in.

And now… now I’m wondering if something’s broken in me. Or if maybe, just maybe, there’s something wrong he saw and didn’t say out loud. Something that made him stop. That made him leave.

Maybe he just didn’t want me.

Or maybe he did.

But not enough.

And the sickest part? A tiny part of me wants him to come back. Even now. Even after the way he vanished like it meant nothing.

But I won’t let him know that.

I won’t ask.

Because if I meant anything to him, even for a second, he would’ve stayed.

Wouldn’t he?