Chapter 3 KNOX

KNOX

The bathroom door clicked shut behind us with a soft finality, sealing out the relentless thump of bass from the main floor. It muffled the chaos just enough that I could hear her breathing—quick, shallow, already edged with anticipation.

She was brunette tonight, all long legs poured into skin-tight jeans that hugged every curve, glossy lips painted a deep, sinful red that caught the dim light from the single overhead bulb like fresh blood.

She’d locked eyes with me across the crowded living room five minutes earlier—that unmistakable look: recognition, raw hunger, the silent promise of I know exactly who you are, and I’m here to take what I can get. No introductions needed. Names were for people who planned on sticking around past sunrise.

She didn’t waste time.

Dropped to her knees right there on the cool marble tile, fingers deft and practiced as they ripped my belt open, yanked the zipper down, jeans tugged just low enough to free me.

No hesitation. No teasing preamble. Just pure, greedy intent. I leaned back against the sink, the sharp edge of the counter biting into my palms where I braced one hand.

The other drifted to her hair—thick, dark waves spilling over my fingers like ink. I didn’t guide her, not really.

Just rested there, letting her feel the subtle weight of control, the unspoken command that said go ahead, impress me—then I’ll wreck you.

“Fuck, Knox,” she whispered, voice husky..

Her eyes flicked up—wide, dark, pupils blown with want—as she wrapped her hand around me, stroking once, twice, testing my length before leaning in.

She started slow, teasing—lips soft and warm around the head, tongue swirling in lazy, deliberate circles that sent a familiar, electric jolt straight up my spine.

I watched through half-lidded eyes as her cheeks hollowed with suction, the little hum of satisfaction vibrating against me every time I twitched on her tongue.

She took me deeper, inch by inch, until her nose brushed my skin and her throat fluttered around the intrusion, gagging softly but refusing to pull back.

Sweat beaded along her hairline; mascara began to smudge at the corners of her eyes from the strain and the tears that welled up when she pushed herself too far.

She looked beautifully wrecked already, and we’d barely begun.

I let out a low groan—part genuine, mostly theatrical. Sound effects kept them motivated, kept the performance going.

My hips rocked forward once, twice—shallow, controlled thrusts that she met with eager enthusiasm, hands gripping my thighs hard enough to leave crescent marks.

It felt good—hot, wet, impossibly tight—but the rush was the same as throwing a perfect spiral in the fourth quarter: satisfying in the moment, automatic, almost mechanical.

I could’ve finished right there, let her swallow every drop and walk out with a smug little story for her friends. Part of me considered it. Quick. Clean. Done.

But boredom won. I tightened my fingers in her hair—just enough to slow her frantic rhythm without pulling—then yanked her off with a wet pop.

She gasped, lips swollen and glistening, confusion flickering for half a second before hunger took over again.

I hauled her to her feet in one rough motion, spun her toward the sink, and bent her over the marble.

“Hands on the counter,” I ordered, voice low and gravel-rough.

“Ass up.”

She obeyed instantly, bracing both palms flat, back arching, jeans already shoved down to mid-thigh.

I kicked her legs wider, yanked the denim lower, and palmed her bare ass hard enough to leave a red handprint.

She moaned—loud, needy—and pushed back against me like she was begging for it.

I fished a condom from my wallet—always prepared—rolled it on with one hand while the other slid between her thighs, finding her soaked and ready.

Two fingers plunged in without warning; she cried out, hips bucking.

I curled them, pumped once, twice, then pulled out and replaced them with my cock in one brutal thrust.

She screamed—sharp, broken, echoing off the tiles. I didn’t give her time to adjust.

I set a punishing rhythm: deep, fast, relentless.

The sink rattled with every slam of my hips against her ass; her nails scraped marble, leaving faint white trails.

I gripped her hair in one fist, yanking her head back so I could watch her face in the fogging mirror—eyes glassy, mouth open in a constant stream of moans and curses, mascara streaking down her cheeks like black tears.

“Harder,” she gasped. “Fuck—harder, Knox—”

I obliged.

One hand slid around to her throat—not choking, just holding—while the other found her clit and rubbed fast, rough circles.

She shattered almost instantly—body locking, thighs trembling, a raw, guttural cry ripping from her throat as she came hard around me, clenching so tight it dragged me right to the edge.

I didn’t fight it.

Buried my face in the crook of her neck to muffle my own grunt, hips jerking erratically as release hit—hot, blinding, emptying everything I had left into the condom.

For a few seconds the world narrowed to the pulse in my ears, the slick heat of her body, the way she was still shaking against me.

Then it was over.

The bathroom reeked of sex—sweat, latex, her cloying vanilla perfume, the faint metallic tang of exertion.

She turned in my arms, breathless and starry-eyed, reaching up for a kiss like we’d just shared something profound.

I gave her a quick, polite brush of lips—detached, perfunctory—then stepped back to fix my jeans and belt.

“That was…” she started, voice still shaky, eyes shining with post-orgasm glow.

“Fun,” I finished for her, flashing the grin that usually ended things cleanly.

“You’re good, sweetheart. Door’s that way.”

Her smile faltered for half a heartbeat, a flicker of disappointment she tried to hide. But she recovered fast.

They always did.

She smoothed her dress with trembling hands, checked her lipstick in the mirror (smeared beyond repair), and slipped out with a little wave over her shoulder.

I lingered after she left.

Splashed cold water on my face, watched droplets slide down the glass as I stared at my reflection.

Same dark hair falling into my eyes, same sharp jaw shadowed with stubble, same bored hazel gaze staring back.

Another night. Another body. Another notch on a belt that had stopped feeling like an achievement months ago. Just another Tuesday—except it was Friday, and the weekend stretched ahead like more of the same. I dried my hands on a monogrammed towel (Dad's decorator insisted on the little luxuries) and pushed back into the chaos.

The bass slammed into me like a physical force—lights strobed low and purple, bodies grinding in sweaty clusters, red Solo cups clutched in hands that had probably never seen a real day's labor.

Typical Friday night at the off-campus palace my boys and I called home.

Technically one of Dad's “investment properties”—a six-bedroom monstrosity in the hills with floor-to-ceiling windows, a pool that glowed neon blue, and enough square footage to make most people dizzy.

Who counted the zeros when the liquor flowed freely and the playlist never stopped?

I leaned against the kitchen island, fresh beer in hand, surveying the kingdom like always. Quarterback for the top-ranked D1 team in the country.

Heir apparent to Reyes Holdings, the kind of sprawling real-estate empire that turned “old money” into an understatement.

Face that landed me on sports billboards, energy-drink ads, and—more importantly—into beds without much effort.

Life was disgustingly, predictably good.

A blonde in a barely-there crop top sidled up next, hips swaying with rehearsed confidence.

“Knox,” she purred, voice syrupy sweet.

“Heard you threw for four TDs last week. That arm's not the only thing impressive about you.”

I smirked, letting my gaze drag down her body slow and deliberate—enough to make her flush pink.

Same script. Same predictable heat. I could've taken her upstairs right then, rerun the bathroom scene with a different face, different moans. Instead, I tipped the beer back and felt only the cold slide down my throat.

The blonde kept talking—something about the game, my stats, how hot I looked in the huddle.

I nodded at the right moments, flashed the grin when expected, but my mind was already drifting.

I pushed off the island, weaving through the crush of bodies toward the back patio. Needed air. Needed something that wasn't this scripted, looping bullshit.

Outside, the night was crisp, the city lights smearing gold and red across the horizon.

I pulled a cigarette from my pocket—bad habit I kept for exactly these moments when the high wore off too soon—and lit it with a flick of my Zippo. Inhaled deep. Smoke curled into the dark like it had better places to be.

My phone buzzed against my thigh. Team group chat.

Hunter: Yo Knox where u at? These chicks keep asking for u 

Me: Busy being legendary. Handle it. 

Hunter: 😂 Legend my ass. Saw u turn down that blonde in the kitchen. U good bro? 

Me: Never better. Just over the reruns tonight.

I pocketed the phone before the inevitable emojis and memes flooded in.

Truth was, I wasn't sure what the hell I was in the mood for anymore.

Winning games was easy—drop back, read the blitz, throw lasers into triple coverage.

Women were even easier—smile, flirt, fuck, repeat. The money? It just sat there, growing, waiting for graduation when I'd slide into the family business like every Reyes man before me. A gilded cage with ocean views.

But lately every touchdown felt hollow. Every conquest faded before the sweat dried. Every zero in the bank account was just another digit in a number that no longer impressed me. I was coasting on fumes, and the tank was dangerously low.

I flicked the cigarette over the railing, watched the ember arc and die in the darkness below. Somewhere out there had to be something real.

Something that didn't come gift-wrapped with fake smiles, easy access, and zero resistance.

Something that might actually make my pulse kick the way it used to when the stadium lights hit and the crowd roared my name—not because of who my dad was, but because of what I could do.

Or maybe I was just post-nut dramatic, overthinking after one too many beers.

Either way, I headed back inside. Kings didn't bail on their own parties early.

But as I stepped through the sliding glass door, eyes scanning the room out of habit—cataloging faces, exits, opportunities—I caught it: a flash of red-and-white stripes slicing through the crowd near the makeshift bar.

Waitress uniform?

In the middle of this frat-house circus?

Weird as hell.

I shook it off at first.

Probably just another sorority girl doing a themed costume bit, or some catering chick who'd wandered in from a side gig. But my gaze snagged anyway. Lingered longer than it should have.

The stripes hugged curves that didn’t belong in this sea of crop tops and mini skirts.

I couldn’t see her face—not really.

The low lights and the shifting crowd kept her features in shadow, half-hidden behind a curtain of loose hair and the angle of her head as she pushed through the crowd.

But her body… fuck.

She had the kind of figure that stopped time for a second. She moved with purpose—efficient, no-nonsense—dodging elbows and passing drinks like she'd done it a thousand times.

Something about the way she carried herself: shoulders back, chin up, even when some drunk idiot bumped her and spilled beer on her sleeve.

She didn't flinch. Didn't apologize. Just wiped it off and kept moving.

Interesting.

For the first time all night, the boredom cracked—just a hair, just enough to let something new slip through.

Maybe tonight wasn't destined to be another rerun after all.

I pushed off the island.

Time to find out who she was.