Page 12 of Crave

But I couldn’t have been in love.

Not with how quickly I’d shoved him out of my head in favour of someone new.

I wasn’t even thinking about Oliver right then. Or the endless times he’d been behind my back while I let him sleep here, eat here, live here rent-free. That betrayal stung, sure. But what burnt hotter was the memory of rough hands and a mouth that had taken without asking, as if I were nothing. I should be hollowed out, sick with humiliation. A stranger in a filthy alley had treated me like something bought and spent, and I should have hated every second. But I didn’t.

Oliver treated me like a cash cow, sure.

But that stranger had treated me like dirt.

And somehow, I preferred being filthy to being scammed.

Unable to stand it, I stumbled to the wardrobe and ripped it open. Oliver’s shirts hung in regimented rows, collars stiff, cuffs pressed sharp as if sneering at me. I dragged one free, shoved my face into it, breathing in his cologne and arrogance. And all it did was sharpen the images hooked deep into me. Not Oliver. Never Oliver. No. The brute in the alley. The weight of him grinding me down. His cock shoved into my mouth, messy, choking, urgent. His laugh when I gasped around him, when I let him take.

I kicked my trousers down, shoved my underwear off, and stood there naked, dick already leaking in my fist. I pumped hard, desperate, hips snapping into my hand as I mouthed against the cotton. The shirt bunched under my teeth, damp with spit, and all I could think was more. Harder. Rougher. The way he’d manhandled me. Made me beg without ever asking.

The pressure built, sharp and blinding, until it broke. I came so hard my vision blurred, hot strings spilling across Oliver’s perfect shirt, soaking the fabric in ruin. My body shook, chest heaving, knees weak.

Desecrated, like I’d promised.

Only it wasn’t revenge leaving me trembling.

It was the filthy, inescapable truth. I wanted the man in the alley again.

But trapped here, all I had was my fury. So I let it consume me. I tore Oliver’s shirts to ribbons, shredding silk and cotton until my hands ached. And when anger wasn’t enough, I used them. Worked myself raw into those perfect clothes, over and over, until I was wrung out and stinking, and I felt the mess I really was. Spent. Disgusting. A pathetic, desperate thing clawing for anything to drag me out of myself. Then I went to work on the rest of his stuff.

When footsteps creaked outside my door, I collapsed in a heap on the bed, sweat-soaked, bleary-eyed, and hollowed out. I couldn’t even muster the strength nor dignity to drape the sheet around me as the door swung open. Needn’t have bothered though, the man standing at my door had seen me in every position imaginable. Perhaps not wallowing in self-pity as such but fuck it. First time for everything.

“Jesus Christ, Tris.” Ollie stepped in, leaving the door ajar as his gaze swept the wreckage. His shirts torn to threads. Shoes scuffed beyond repair. Charger, AirPods, laptop, iPad, all broken, all useless. I’d gutted his presence from my room, destroyed every trace of him. He bent, lifted a ruined shoe, then let it drop. “Are you fucking insane?”

I didn’t answer. Couldn’t. Because I was unsure. I’d certainly lost hold of my senses last night, and the wreckage around us testified to it. So I stayed where I was. Face down on the bed, cheek pressed into twisted sheets, bare arse exposed, greasy hair falling like a curtain over my face. A picture of collapse.

Then Henry, Zara, and Benji all coaxed from their rooms, crowded the doorway, silent witnesses to the ruin.

And me—wreckage at the centre of it.

Ollie’s head snapped round at the sudden audience. “Fuck off.”

“Not your house, Montgomery.” Henry folded his arms, spine ramrod straight, his voice sharp with authority learnt from being a Harrow prefect. He still spoke in surnames, as though handing out punishments after lights out. “And with nothing left here that belongs to you, you’ve got no right to be in it. In fact—” he nudged Zara with his elbow “—hand your key to Zara and get out.”

Ollie sneered, digging into his back pocket. He tossed the key, Zara catching it neatly, then stalked a few steps closer, eyes blazing. “Believe me, I don’t want to spend another minute in this mausoleum with you, Henry bloody Redmayne. You pompous, posh little prick.” He swept a hand wide, accusing all of them. “None of you are real. You think you’re slumming it, playing house with Daddy’s money, but you wouldn’t know the street if it spat in your face. Pathetic, the lot of you.”

I pushed up from the bed, bare and unapologetic. Zara made a noise and looked away, Henry’s ears burnt crimson as he half-shielded his face, and Benji laughed and I didn’t know if he was laughing at my shrivelled cock after my indulgent marathon, or just the sheer audacity of me standing there starkers. Either way, I didn’t care. Boarding school had burnt the shame out of me years ago. Flesh was flesh, everyone had seen everyone’s, and most of us had tugged each other off at some point. Rite of passage.

“Fuck you, Oliver.” I shoved him hard in the shoulder. “You’re not exactly council estate yourself.”

He swept his gaze down me, scathing. “Christ, Tris. Put some clothes on, and maybe we’ll talk.”

“I’ve no interest in talking to you.”

Ollie’s mouth twisted into a smirk, cruel and familiar. “Fine. We can just fuck, then. If that’s what you want.” He slammed the door so hard on my mates the walls rattled, then twisted the lock, shutting them all out and maybe me in. “You’re a fucking mess.” He strode back in, his fingers clamping my chin, tilting my face as if I were something to be examined under a light. “What did Benji feed you last night? Did he give you anything?”

I slapped his hand away. “Who the fuck do you think you are? Barging in here and looking down on me after what you did. Then pretending to give a fuck about me.”

“Oh, come off it, Tristan. I do care about you. Care what Rothwell has put inside you, at least. And to defend myself even a little here, we never said we were exclusive.”

The words landed like a punch, but not in the way he intended. Not heartbreak. But rage at the sheer audacity. Because, fine, technically he was right. That conversation hadn’t happened. It was implied. Assumed. A mutual understanding. Or so I’d thought. And if I wanted to be the little lawyer my father expected, I could have made a case for it. Not written, no contract signed, but oral agreements can still bind parties where intention is clear. Common law principle. Implied terms. Breach of trust. Res ipsa loquitur. The thing speaks for itself.

A gentlemen’s agreement, if you will.