She was everywhere. Her skin beneath my hands, soft and yielding. The curve of her neck as she arched into my touch. Her breath, hot and desperate against my throat.
She was beneath me—soft, warm, so fucking warm, her breathy moans spilling into the dim light.
The scent of peaches filled my lungs as she writhed beneath me, her body pressing against mine like she couldn't get close enough.
Her fingers dug into my shoulders, leaving marks I wanted to keep forever.
Her eyes – those deep brown eyes I'd tried so hard not to notice – locked onto mine, filled with something that made my chest ache.
Her nails biting into my skin as she arched into my touch, her lips parting, swollen, glistening.
"Marcus…" My name. A whisper. A plea.
My grip tightened on her. I felt the way she trembled beneath me, the heat radiating from her skin, the way her body responded to every movement, every press of my hands.
She wanted more. Needed more. And I was giving it to her.
When she moaned my name over and over again, it wasn't the way Stacey did it – practiced, performative.
This was raw. Real. Like it was being torn from somewhere deep inside her.
I woke up gasping, my heart trying to punch through my ribs. Sweat made the sheets cling to my skin like guilt, and erection strained against my boxers, hard and aching and impossible to ignore.
For a moment, I couldn’t breathe. My heart slammed against my ribs, the remnants of the dream still too real, still too vivid, still too fucking present in my body.
No. No fucking way.
"Fuck." The word tasted like acid in my mouth. "Fuck, fuck, fuck."
The ceiling offered no answers as I stared up at it, trying to get my breathing under control. But I couldn't escape the ghost of her touch, the echo of those sounds I'd never actually heard her make.
This wasn’t happening. Not her. Not Fatty Betty.
Betty.
Of all the fucked-up things my mind could have conjured, it had to be her.
Fatty Betty. Stacey's pathetic stepsister. The girl I was supposed to be playing, not...
I threw off the covers and stumbled to the bathroom, splashing cold water on my face like I could wash away the memory of the dream.
I wanted to punch something. I was pissed. At myself. At her. At the fact that I even had this dream in the first place.
This was wrong. I scrubbed a hand over my face, inhaling deep, trying to steady myself.
This was just my brain fucking with me. A fluke. A misfire. That was all.
And yet—even as I tried to shake it off, even as I forced myself to breathe, I could still hear her voice.
Soft. Breathless. Moaning my name like I was the only thing in the world that mattered.
When I looked in the mirror, all I could see was the hunger in my own eyes. The same hunger I'd felt in the dream when she'd...
"No." I gripped the sink hard enough to turn my knuckles white.
This wasn't happening. This couldn't be happening. But it was. And the evidence followed me through the day like a shadow I couldn't shake.
Basketball practice became a special kind of hell.
I was determined to sweat it out—to run drills until I was too exhausted to think about anything, especially her. But it didn’t work.
She was still there.
Every time I tried to focus, the dream crept back in—her body beneath mine, the heat of her skin, the way she had clung to me like she needed me just as much as I needed her.
I gritted my teeth, dribbling down the court, pushing past defenders, but my rhythm was off.
Missed a shot. Ran a play too slow. Then—tripped over my own goddamn feet.
I hit the ground hard, palms slapping against the polished floor.
"Marcus, what the hell was that?!" Coach’s voice boomed, cutting through the gym like a whip.
I exhaled sharply, shoving myself back up, rolling my shoulders, trying to ignore the way everyone was watching me, their expressions a mix of confusion and disbelief.
I never messed up. Not like this.
"Get your damn head in the game, Archibald!" Coach barked. "Or don’t bother showing up."
I swallowed hard, nodding stiffly. But my head was somewhere else entirely.
Somewhere with soft skin and hungry lips and sounds that made my blood burn.
I hated it. Hated her for infiltrating my mind like this. Hated myself more for letting it happen.
I needed to fix this. Now. The solution seemed obvious: Stacey.
That night, I grabbed my phone and texted her.
Me: Mind to Netflix ‘n chill tonight?
Her response came instantly.
Stacey: For you? Always <3
I exhaled through my nose. Good. I needed this. Needed her. Needed to erase whatever the fuck was happening in my head.
Because I wasn’t thinking about Betty.
I wasn’t.
She arrived exactly as expected – eager, available, ready to play our usual game. The second Stacey walked through my door, she was all over me.
I didn’t waste time. I kissed her roughly, hands gripping her hips, pulling her against me, desperate to drown in something familiar, something easy. Her breath hitched as she pressed back, fingers threading through my hair, nails scraping down my back.
But even as I pushed her against the wall, even as my lips moved against her skin—it wasn’t the same. The fire wasn’t there.
I gritted my teeth, trying harder, pulling at her clothes, letting my hands roam her body, forcing myself to focus on her, on the way she gasped, the way she moaned.
Anyway, it wasn’t her voice I was hearing. It wasn’t her body I was picturing. And when I finally pushed her onto the bed, when I moved over her, when I tried to drown myself in her completely—I felt nothing.
Everything felt off. Wrong. Her skin was too smooth, her sounds too calculated. All about her was perfect, polished, produced.
And all I could think about was how Betty would feel.
Would she be shy at first? Would she try to hide her reactions, bite her lip to keep quiet? Or would she let go completely, let me see every raw, unfiltered response?
The thoughts came unbidden, unwanted, but unstoppable.
I cursed under my breath, pushing harder, faster, rougher, chasing something that wasn’t there. No heat. No unbearable tension. Nothing like the dream.
Nothing like Betty.
Stacey gasped, nails digging into my back. "Fuck, Marcus—"
But I wasn’t there. Not really. And when she finally reached her peak, when she collapsed beneath me, breathless and spent—I couldn’t.
I let out a low, frustrated breath, rolling onto my back, staring at the ceiling.
I never had this problem. Ever.
Stacey didn't notice, too caught up in her own satisfaction. But I noticed. I noticed everything.
It didn’t work. Not even close.
I couldn't finish. My body, which had been so ready, so desperate in that dream, refused to cooperate. The more I tried, the more frustrated I became, until finally I had to stop.
Disgust coiling in my gut. Not at Stacey – at myself.
At the way my mind kept betraying me, kept circling back to someone I was supposed to be playing. Someone who was just a means to an end.
The bet. The project. The careful plans I'd made.
I was so fucked.
Especially because some dark, twisted part of me was starting to want it.