The week after the rooftop party was a restless blur. Work consumed me—debugging code, leading a project—but my mind kept drifting. Alyssa's text (Round three, Peter? Too much fun) taunted me, daring a response I hadn't sent. Zara's number, slipped to me with a quiet "Call me if you want real company," felt heavier, her calm presence lingering like a melody. I hadn't called either. Not yet.
Friday evening found me in my room at the lodge, the usual chaos of the common room muted. Shaw was off with his Sirus flame, Davies tangled in some new fling. I was skimming tech forums on my laptop when a knock broke my focus. Odd—nobody knocked here; the crew just barged in.
I opened the door, and there was Zara. She stood in the hallway, braids cascading over a fitted black sweater, jeans hugging her curves, a leather jacket slung over one shoulder. Her eyes met mine, warm but unreadable, a faint smile playing on her lips.
"Zara?" My voice betrayed my surprise. "What's this?"
She tilted her head, amusement flickering. "Greenwood said you'd be holed up. Thought I'd check if you're still allergic to fun."
I leaned against the doorframe, pulse ticking up. Her showing up unannounced was bold, and part of me wondered what game she was playing. Was this Greenwood's doing? Shaw's meddling? Or just Zara, following her own rhythm? Her presence felt like a challenge, but not the kind I was used to dodging.
"Fun's not the issue," I said, keeping my tone even. "Just didn't expect company."
She stepped closer, her vanilla-earth scent hitting me, subtle but intoxicating. "Good. I like catching you off guard."
I hesitated, then stepped back, gesturing her in. "Come in. You're here, might as well make yourself at home."
She slipped past, her arm brushing mine, deliberate or not, sending a jolt through me. The room felt smaller with her in it. I closed the door, leaning against it as she dropped her jacket on a chair and scanned the space—sparse, just a bed, desk, and a shelf with tech manuals and a framed photo of my family back in Nigeria.
"Not much for decorating, huh?" she said, her voice teasing but soft.
I shrugged, grabbing a bottle of water from the mini-fridge. "Don't plan on staying long enough to care. Want something? Water, beer?"
"Water's fine," she said, settling onto the edge of my bed like she owned it. I handed her a bottle, our fingers grazing, her touch lingering a beat too long. My mind raced—why was she here? Not just to chat, not with that look in her eyes, dark and curious, like she was peeling me apart.
I sat across from her on the desk chair, keeping some distance. "So, what's this about? Greenwood send you to drag me out?"
She laughed, low and rich, sipping her water. "Nah, this is all me. Saw you at the rooftop, dancing like you meant it, then pulling back. Got me wondering what's going on in that head of yours."
Her directness threw me. I leaned back, studying her. Zara wasn't like Alyssa, all sharp edges and calculated tease. She was steady, grounded, but there was fire beneath her calm, and I felt it now, warming the air between us.
"Wondering's dangerous," I said, a smirk tugging my lips. "Might not like what you find."
Her eyes sparkled, holding mine. "I'm not scared of a little danger."
The words hung there, heavy with promise. I felt the pull, the same one I'd fought at the rooftop, but stronger now, alone with her in my space. Memories of Nigeria flickered—sweat, blood, regret—but Zara's presence was different, like she could anchor me through the storm I'd been avoiding.
I stood, breaking the tension, and grabbed a small Bluetooth speaker from my shelf. "You like music, right? Let's make this less… interrogational."
She grinned, approving. "Good call."
I synced my phone, queuing a playlist of smooth jazz, the kind that used to fill smoky bars back home. The saxophone curled through the room, low and sultry, easing the edge. Zara leaned back on her hands, her body relaxed but her eyes locked on me, inviting.
"Better," she said. "Now tell me, Peter—what's got you so guarded? You're not like the others, chasing every high."
I exhaled, sitting beside her on the bed, close but not touching. "Had my fill of highs back in Nigeria. One night went too far, left scars I didn't expect. Makes you rethink what's worth chasing."
Her gaze softened, but she didn't pry. Instead, she shifted closer, her knee brushing mine. "Fair. But you're not running from everything, are you?"
Her voice was velvet, teasing out something raw in me. I turned, her face inches away, her lips parted slightly, breath warm. The music pulsed, the room shrinking to just us.
"Not everything," I said, voice low, almost a growl.
She smiled, slow and deliberate, then set her water down, her hand finding my thigh, her touch light but electric. "Good. Because I'm not here to chase. I'm here to find out."
My pulse hammered, her closeness unraveling me. I caught her wrist, holding it, testing her resolve. "You sure about that, Zara?"
Her eyes blazed, fearless. "Try me."
I didn't think. I leaned in, my lips grazing hers, soft at first, testing. She sighed, a soft "Mmm…" that broke my restraint. Our mouths crashed together, her kiss fierce, tongue slick and hungry, tasting of wine and want. Her hands roamed, tugging my shirt, nails grazing my skin.
I pulled her onto my lap, her legs straddling me, her heat pressing against my growing hardness. "Fuck, Zara…" I growled, kissing down her neck, sucking her pulse point. She moaned, loud and unashamed, "Ohhh… Peter… yes…" Her hips rocked, grinding against me, each roll sending fire through my veins.
She yanked my shirt off, her hands exploring my chest, abs, lower. "God, you're carved," she whispered, voice thick with lust. I slid her sweater up, unhooking her bra, her breasts spilling free, dark nipples hard. I took one in my mouth, tongue circling, her cries sharp, "Ahhh… fuck, that's so good…"
Her hands fumbled with my belt, then my jeans, slipping inside. Her eyes widened as she gripped me, stroking slowly. "Jesus… you're… huge," she breathed, a mix of awe and nerves. "This is… a lot."
I smirked, kissing her hard, my hand sliding under her jeans, finding her soaked. She gasped, hips bucking against my fingers. "Ohhh… God… don't stop…" Her moans grew louder, "Mmm… ahhh… Peter, please…" as I worked her, slow and deliberate, her body trembling.
I pulled her jeans down, her panties gone in a flash, and she spread her legs, eyes locked on mine, daring me. I stood, shedding my jeans, my cock springing free, her gaze fixed on it, lips parting. "Fuck… that's… intense," she whispered.
I positioned myself, the tip brushing her entrance, her heat pulling me in. "You sure?" I rasped, voice strained.
"Fuck me," she demanded, nails digging into my arms.
I pushed in, slow, her tightness gripping me like a vice. She cried out, "Ohhh… fuck… it's too big…!" Her voice broke, pain and pleasure tangled, her walls stretching to take me. I paused, letting her adjust, but she rocked her hips, urging me deeper. "Don't stop… ahhh… give it to me…"
I thrust deeper, her moans a symphony, "Mmm… so deep… you're splitting me…" Her legs tightened, pulling me in, her pussy clenching as I moved, slow then harder, the bed creaking. "Yes… ohhh… harder…!" she screamed, nails raking my back, her body shaking with each thrust.
"Fuck, Zara… you're so tight," I growled, lost in her heat, her cries driving me wild. Her walls pulsed, wet and gripping, her moans louder, "Ahhh… Peter… I'm gonna… ohhh…!" She came hard, her body convulsing, pussy squeezing me so tight I nearly lost it.
I kept going, her gasps sharp, "Ohhh… it's too much… you're too fucking big…!" But she didn't stop me, her hips meeting mine, chasing another peak. I flipped her, bending her over the bed, entering from behind, her ass perfect against me. "Yes… fuck me like that…!" she moaned, voice hoarse, her body trembling as I slammed into her, deeper, harder.
Another orgasm hit, her scream muffled in the pillow, "Ahhh… Peter… I can't…!" Her knees buckled, but I held her up, my release building, heat coiling tight. "Zara… I'm close…" I warned.
"Inside… do it…" she panted, pushing back.
I let go, groaning as I came, filling her, her moans soft, "Mmm… ohhh… so warm…" We collapsed, breathless, her body still trembling, my cock pulsing inside her.
She turned, eyes dazed but glowing, a lazy smile on her lips. "Fuck, Peter… I wasn't ready for you."
I chuckled, kissing her softly, heart still racing. "Told you to be careful."
We lay there, tangled, the jazz still playing, a soft backdrop to our heavy breaths. Zara's hand traced my chest, her touch grounding me. "This stays between us," she said, voice firm but warm.
"Deal," I replied, meaning it.
Morning light crept through the blinds, Zara gone, her scent lingering on my sheets. My first time in Canada, and it was nothing like Nigeria—no blood, no haunting aftermath, just raw, electric connection. Zara's calm, her strength, fit me in ways I hadn't expected. She wasn't a fling; she was a mirror, showing me I could feel again.
My phone buzzed. Alyssa: Heard you had a quiet night. Still dodging me?
I smirked, typing: Not dodging. Just choosing my moments.
I set the phone down, the lodge waking around me. Zara was a beginning, a spark I wanted to chase. Alyssa's game could wait. For now, I felt alive, ready for whatever came next.