Burn Me Gently — Chapter 1
She walked into the party starving—body, heart, and everything in between.
Not for food—though she hadn't eaten more than a bag of chips since morning. No, this hunger went deeper. This was the ache she buried under hoodies and sarcasm. The craving no lecture could quiet. She was starving for heat, for contact, for someone to notice her without asking what the hell was wrong.
And Zayne? Zayne noticed her like a storm smells blood in the air.
"Lea." His voice was already pulling her in before she reached the kitchen.
He didn't smile. Just looked at her the way he always did—like he could already feel her under him. His hoodie hung low over his eyes, his jaw tight, and the red solo cup in his hand was mostly untouched. For once.
She hated him for how much her body reacted. Hated herself for how fast she followed him upstairs.
The room they found was someone else's. It always was. She didn't care.
The second the door closed, his hands were on her—rough, familiar, unforgiving. He kissed her like a punishment, like he was trying to erase the days she spent avoiding him.
"You've been ignoring me," he growled against her throat, his hand already under her shirt.
"I had class," she muttered.
"Don't care."
Neither did she, apparently, because she didn't stop him. She didn't ask him to slow down when he dragged her hoodie over her head or when he shoved her jeans halfway down her thighs. Her panties followed, damp and shamefully easy.
His fingers found her like muscle memory.
"You miss this?" he asked, two fingers pushing inside her.
Lea bit her lip hard enough to draw blood.
"Say it," he whispered, his voice low and thick.
She didn't. But her body betrayed her—hips rocking, breath catching. She hated that she was already so close.
Then his mouth was on her.
She gasped, fingers sinking into his hair, tugging as his tongue flicked over her clit like he knew exactly how much pressure it took to make her forget her own name.
She came too fast. Too hard. Her thighs shook and her throat gave that ragged, helpless noise that made her feel like a stranger in her own skin.
Zayne didn't let her recover. Didn't ask if she was okay. He just undid his belt with one hand and pushed inside her like he had every right.
No condom. Never a question.
Her head hit the mattress. The frame creaked. His breath stuttered.
It was fast. Brutal. Nothing sweet about it. Just skin and sweat and regret.
And when he finished—barely a grunt, no eye contact—he pulled out, zipped up, and grabbed his phone off the nightstand.
"You good?" he asked like it meant something.
Lea sat up slowly, her heart beating somewhere near her throat. Her legs were sticky. Her dignity had left five minutes ago.
"Yeah. I'm good."
Liar.
She didn't cry. Not until the hallway.
Downstairs, the party was still going—someone screaming "shots," someone else vomiting in a kitchen sink. She didn't stop to say goodbye.
Outside, the air was cold. Her hoodie clung to her sweat-damp skin.
A man stood under the lamppost across the street. Not moving. Just watching.
She blinked, but the shadows swallowed him before she could look again.
She shook it off.
Because no one was ever really watching her.
Not when it mattered.