There's something about late nights in this tiny-ass apartment that makes me crave warmth—real, skin-on-skin warmth. Not the kind you get from huddling under blankets because the heat’s been cut off again. Deserae’s asleep (or pretending to be), and Elena’s probably out getting into trouble somewhere. Me? I’m wide awake, thinking about how much I want a rough hand sliding up my thigh, fingers digging into the soft flesh there before shoving inside me without asking. No sweet talk, no foreplay—just pure need. The kind of fucking that makes you forget your mom’s a liar and your room’s the size of a closet. Who else gets off on the fantasy of being used like that? Just a body, a pulse, and someone who doesn’t give a shit about your baggage. Fuck, maybe I should’ve gone out with Elena tonight.