Stella's gaze lingered, her breath still uneven, her eyes flicking downward for a fleeting moment before snapping back to his.
Her lips parted, words teetering on the edge, but silence swallowed them.
Then she turned, slipping through the crowd like a wisp of smoke, her hips swaying with that same effortless allure, as if her body hadn't just unraveled under his touch on a crowded bus.
Jason's fingers twitched, an instinct to chase her, to speak, to do something—but his feet stayed rooted, the weight of it all too heavy, too real.
His heart thundered, his hand still slick with her essence, the air thick with the taste of heat and guilt.
She stepped off at the next stop, the bus doors hissing shut behind her, and the world felt colder without her presence.
He didn't see her again that day.
Not until evening.
The sky was a bruised shade of indigo when Jason slipped back into the house, its warm lights casting a deceptive glow of normalcy.
He shut the door softly, his pulse a steady throb in his throat, each step heavy with the weight of unspoken truths.
"Jason."
Her voice cut through the quiet, low and charged.
Stella stood in the kitchen, a glass of red wine cradled in her hand, her back pressed against the counter.
Her bare feet brushed the cool tile, her body framed in the same red crop top that hugged her curves, but her jeans were new—untorn, pristine, a fragile barrier to the memory of her heat.
Her cheeks flushed the moment their eyes met, a soft pink blooming under her skin, betraying the calm she tried to project.
He stepped closer, slow, deliberate, the air between them crackling with tension, taut as a pulled wire.
"I…" she began, then faltered, biting her lip.
Her grip tightened on the wine glass, knuckles paling.
Silence stretched, thick and heavy, filling the space where words should have been.
Finally, she spoke, her voice a hushed confession. "It was a mistake."
Jason didn't move, his breath caught somewhere deep in his chest.
Her eyes darted to the wine, as if it could anchor her.
"I didn't know it was you. On the bus. I thought…" She ran a hand through her hair, loose strands catching the light.
"Fuck. I don't know what I thought. I was…" Her voice broke, her lips a trembling line.
Jason's throat burned, dry as ash. "You didn't stop me."
Her eyes snapped to his, fierce and unguarded.
"I couldn't." The admission hung between them, raw and unfiltered. "I should have. But I didn't."
Silence crashed down again, heavier this time, electric with the weight of what they both knew.
She stepped around the counter, closing the distance, the wine glass trembling in her grip.
Her scent—jasmine, vanilla, and that primal edge—wrapped around him, pulling him under.
"We don't talk about this," she said, her voice low, urgent. "Not again. Please."
He nodded once, slow, his jaw tight.
Then, so softly it was almost a breath, she added, "I've got… urges."
Jason blinked, his stomach lurching, his cock twitching despite the guilt clawing at him.
Her flush deepened, her gaze drifting past him, lost in some private memory.
"They're not normal. I know that. I like being watched. Being touched where I shouldn't. I like ropes. Gags. Humiliation. Being used." Her voice dropped lower, each word a confession carved from her core.
"I've got kinks I can't even say out loud sometimes. That tear in my jeans?" Her eyes flicked to his, sharp and unflinching. "That wasn't an accident."
Jason's mouth opened, but no words came, his breath stolen by the rawness of her truth.
She sipped her wine, her lips trembling against the glass, the liquid catching the light like blood.
Then, softer still, she whispered, "I'm fucked up."
It wasn't shame in her voice.
It was a confession, raw and unapologetic, laid bare before him.
And in that moment, Jason knew—she wasn't just telling him.
She wanted him to understand.