#echo 9

The morning sun filtered through the loft window, soft and golden—oblivious to the fact that you’d declared war sometime around 3 a.m.

You woke up draped in his sheets, satisfied and smug, the echo of your own moans still lingering in the air like smoke. You hadn’t bothered being quiet.

Because the point was for him to hear it.

For him to know exactly what he left behind.

And now? Now you are going to dress the part.

You climbed out of bed, showered, and pulled on your last clean pair of jeans. A fitted tank. Easy. Comfortable. But not enough.

You padded over to the corner where his laundry basket still sat half-unfolded—grabbed the same soft flannel he’d worn two nights ago, the one that still smelled like engine oil and aftershave and sweat. And you shrugged it on like it was a dare.

“Next time you come down in my clothes, make sure you’re ready to earn it.”

His words echoed in your head.

You smiled at your reflection. Fine. Let’s see how ready you are to take it, then.

You cuffed the sleeves. Left the top buttons undone. Let the collar hang off one shoulder in that perfectly effortless way that would infuriate him.

And then you went downstairs.

Kylo was already working—shoulders tense under the hood of some beat-up Dodge, sweatpants slung low on his hips, jaw tight.

You didn’t say a word.

Didn’t look at him.

Just walked right past like nothing happened. Like the sound of your moaning his name hadn’t bounced down the loft stairs like a ghost haunting the walls.

But as soon as you stepped through the doorway into the office, you felt it.

That stare.

Hot. Focused. Unyielding.

He didn’t call after you. Didn’t bark some order or snarky comment. But you knew—without a doubt—that he was standing there behind the car, eyes glued to the swing of your hips, the hem of his flannel, the slight imprint of your nipples through your tank.

You didn’t glance back. Didn’t flinch. Just let the door swing shut behind you and went straight for the desk like it was any other morning.

You slid into the chair, adjusted the flannel at your shoulders, and started working.

Invoices. Parts logs. Vendor emails from some janky Yahoo account you still hadn’t bothered cleaning up. You clicked through each one with practiced boredom, as if you hadn’t been practically feral under his hands twelve hours ago.

Your thighs pressed together on instinct.

But you ignored it.

You had a job to do. Technically. Whatever this was.

You heard a soft clang from the garage—a wrench dropped harder than necessary. A hissed curse. Footsteps pacing past the office window.

He was close.

Watching, maybe.

But you didn’t give him the satisfaction of looking.

Instead, you tugged the flannel tighter around yourself, like it belonged to you. One leg crossed over the other. Your foot bobbed lazily under the desk as you returned to sorting paperwork he should’ve cleaned up months ago.

The stack of invoices was still a mess. The printer tray was still jammed. And his schedule was, somehow, double-booked for Tuesday.

You made a little noise under your breath—half annoyance, half amusement—and muttered, “Jesus Christ, it’s like a toddler runs this place.”

You didn’t mean for it to carry.

But it did.

And from the other side of the thin garage wall, something went very, very still.

Good.

Let him stew.

You clicked a pen. Jotted a note. Leaned back in the chair and opened a new spreadsheet.

All without so much as acknowledging him.

Because the war wasn’t in words now. It was in silence. And you were winning.

The deeper you got into his email, the worse it got.

Unread messages stacked into the triple digits. Half of them flagged. Most with no subject line. One labeled simply “Part?” from two months ago. You scrolled, eyebrows lifting higher with every page.

“Jesus,” you muttered, dragging the mouse across a dozen spam offers for off-brand carburetors and erotic car calendars. “You’ve got a PhD in ignoring shit.”

You started unsubscribing. Sorting. Deleting. Every click was another little stitch in the tapestry of chaos he’d built and ignored.

The satisfaction? Immaculate.

You didn’t hear the bell above the garage door at first.

But you did hear the voice.

“Afternoon.”

Your stomach dropped. Then twisted.

You looked up.

Tucker was standing in the doorway again—shoulders relaxed, grin already halfway formed, and a fresh white tee stretched across his chest like it had been put on just to be noticed.

He looked even more pleased with himself than yesterday.

“Don’t suppose the new office manager’s still around?” he asked, eyes scanning the room before landing on you—seated, composed, draped in flannel that was very clearly not your own.

His smile widened.

“Well hey there, darlin’.”

You kept your expression neutral.

But only just.

“You’re back,” you said, not quite a question.

“Couldn’t stay away,” he replied, sauntering closer. “Still need that tire rotation. But I’ll admit… might’ve been hoping you’d be the one to check my pressure.”

You blinked slowly. “Wow.”

He chuckled. “Too much?”

“Little bit.”

But you didn’t shut it down.

Not immediately.

Because his gaze dropped to the flannel then trailing the way it slipped off your shoulder, eyes lingering on the line of hickeys blooming across your neck and chest.

It looked unmistakably borrowed. And even more unmistakably his.

He tilted his head. “That his?”

You didn’t answer.

Didn’t need to.

The door to the garage slammed open.

Kylo’s boots hit the floor heavy. Purposeful. No announcement. No pretense.

Just presence.

He walked past the desk without looking at you—straight to where Tucker stood—and stopped just close enough to make the air go sharp.

Tucker gave a tight smile. “Still doing rotations?”

Kylo didn’t speak.

Didn’t blink.

Just looked him over like he was measuring how deep he’d need to dig the grave.

“Appointment’s at eleven,” he finally said.

“It’s ten thirty.”

Kylo turned slowly. Looked at the office clock. Then back at him.

“Then you can wait.”

You sat perfectly still for a beat.

Then—casually, almost sweetly—you pushed back from the desk and stood, smoothing the front of Kylo’s flannel like it was some apron in a 1950s kitchen. You didn’t glance at the man fuming just a few feet away.

You looked right at Tucker.

“You want some coffee while you wait?”

He grinned, instantly charming. “I’d never say no to a beautiful woman offering me caffeine.”

“Good answer,” you said, already turning toward the dusty coffeemaker tucked into the corner of the office.

You felt Kylo’s stare on your back like a second sun.

Every step you took was intentional. Every movement is deliberate.

You opened the cabinet. Reached high—just enough that the flannel rose up your back, flashing a sliver of skin as you grabbed a mug. Poured. Stirred. Hummed under your breath like the world was light and easy and not currently full of deadly testosterone energy about to detonate.

“Hope you like it strong,” you said, turning back and handing the cup to Tucker with both hands, your smile a little too wide, a little too inviting.

He took it with a wink. “I like everything about this place more now that you’re here.”

You laughed—light, airy, hand brushing his arm as you walked past him to return to the desk.

Kylo hadn’t moved.

Not an inch.

Just stood there, watching, jaw clenched so hard you could see it flex.

You sat back down in your chair, gently crossing your legs and sipping your own mug like nothing was wrong. Like you hadn’t just poured gasoline on the slow-burning fuse he left last night.

“Customer’s all yours,” you said to Kylo, flipping a page in the appointment book without looking up.

Then, almost lazily:

“Try not to scare him off this time.”

Tucker had finally left.

Not without trying every last line in his dusty little playbook—grinning, lingering, even touching your wrist once when you handed him the invoice like he wanted to leave his name on your skin. He flirted with the full force of someone who thought he was making progress.

And you let him. You weren’t interested. Not really. But you let him. Because someone else was listening.

And now?

Now it was quiet again.

The office was still warm with the lingering scent of coffee and engine grease. You’d returned to your seat, tapping the edge of a highlighter against your lips, flipping through a dusty old service ledger like nothing had happened.

But you could feel it.

The energy had shifted.

Kylo hadn’t said a word since Tucker pulled out of the lot. Not when the door shut. Not when the car roared to life. Not when the flirtatious goodbye echoed behind it.

He was somewhere just outside the office—close enough to watch, close enough to hear. But he hadn’t crossed the threshold. Not yet.

The silence stretched.

Until—

The office door swung open behind you.

You didn’t jump.

Didn’t even flinch.

You flipped a page in the ledger and looked up casually, lips curling into a soft, polite smile. Like this was any other morning.

“Hey,” you said, bright and chipper. “Everything good with Tucker?”

Kylo didn’t answer.

He stood just inside the door, chest rising slow and deliberate, eyes locked on you like you were the problem and the solution and the fucking fire he couldn’t stop touching.

You tilted your head, blinking innocently.

“He seemed sweet,” you added, tapping your pen against your lips. “Talkative.”

No reaction.

Not with his face.

But his fingers curled into fists at his sides, slow and tight, like he was trying to physically hold something back.

You leaned forward in the chair, arms resting on the desk. His flannel shifted on your shoulders, slipping just enough to flash the strap of your tank top.

“Don’t suppose you scared him off again, did you?” you teased lightly.

Still nothing.

The air crackled.

You could practically feel the effort it took for him to stay silent. To keep standing there, still, while you played this little game with his clothes on your body and someone else’s name still echoing off the garage walls.

You clicked the pen.

“Need something?”

That was it.

That was the snap.

He moved.

Fast.

Crossed the room in three long strides and slammed his hands down on either side of the desk, caging you in before you could even lean back. The whole desk shuddered beneath his weight. You gasped—genuine, this time—and looked up into eyes that were blazing.

“Is this a joke to you?” he said, voice low and lethal. “You think you can walk around in my shit, moan my name loud enough for the whole fucking block to hear, then bat your eyes at that hillbilly and act like nothing happened?”

You stared up at him, breath catching—but not in fear.

In thrill.

In victory.

Because he was unraveling.

Because you liked it.

You blinked up at him slowly, tilting your head like you honestly didn’t understand what the problem was.

“...What’re you talking about?”

His nostrils flared.

The vein in his neck twitched.

Your tone was perfect—light, curious, baffled. Like he was the crazy one. Like you hadn’t spent the morning humming around the office, covered in his scent, while another man flirted with you like you were available.

Kylo leaned in further, arms tense, breath hitting the desk in short bursts.

“You know exactly what I’m talking about.”

You bit your lip thoughtfully, eyes wide.

“No, I really don’t,” you said, voice soft and syrupy. “Did I forget to file something?”

He made a sound. Half growl, half scoff, pure frustration.

“You fucking—”

His hand slammed down beside the appointment book.

You didn’t flinch.

Didn’t blink.

You just… smiled. Sweet. Pursed-lip. Deadly.

“I thought you told me to get to work,” you said quietly, flipping to the next page in the ledger. “So I did.”

Kylo straightened like he was trying to physically distance himself from you—like getting any closer would mean losing something he hadn’t intended to give.

But his eyes stayed locked on yours.

“I swear to God,” he muttered, voice ragged, “you’re trying to break me.”

Your lashes fluttered. “Would I do that?”

He stepped back once. Twice.

But he didn’t turn.

Didn’t leave.

He just stared, hands flexing at his sides, every muscle in his body screaming to move, to grab, to own.

You let the silence hang for a beat longer before turning back to the screen.

“Well,” you sighed. “Let me know when you’re ready to be professional again.”

You didn’t hear the first step.

You felt it.

The shift in the air. The way the silence snapped in half.

And then—his hands were on you.

Not gentle.

Not tentative.

Just there, wrapping around your arm and yanking you up from the chair so fast your breath caught in your throat.

“Hey—” you started, but he already had you spun around, bent forward against the desk, the sharp corner pressing into your hip.

His chest was at your back in seconds. His voice hot in your ear.

“You wanna pretend nothing happened?” he growled. “Fine. Let’s make something happen, then.”

You gasped as his hand tangled in your hair, yanking your head back just enough to bare your throat—already marked, already bruised from the night before.

“You think you can play games in my shirt, at my desk, moaning my name and then smiling at him like you didn’t soak my sheets six hours ago?”

You whimpered—just once—and his other hand slid around your front, dragging up under the flannel, pushing your tank top higher.

“Bet you’re still wet,” he muttered, voice full of dark satisfaction. “Bet you never stopped thinking about it.”

You didn’t answer.

You couldn’t.

His hand dipped lower, into your jeans, beneath your panties—and fuck if he wasn’t right.

“Jesus,” he hissed. “You liked that, didn’t you? Making me listen to you fuck yourself in my bed.”

You let out a strangled sound, hips rocking against the desk as his fingers slid through your slick, slow and punishing.

“You wanted me to lose it,” he said, pressing harder. “You wanted this.”

He pulled your jeans down just far enough. No teasing. No ceremony. You heard the sharp click of his belt and the rough drag of denim as he shoved his sweats down just enough to free himself.

“You wanted to be fucked like a problem?” he said, teeth grazing your ear. “Congratulations, sweetheart.”

Then he drove into you in one hard, brutal thrust.

You cried out—loud, shameless—as your hands flew out to brace yourself, the desk groaning beneath your weight.

“Kylo—”

“That’s right,” he snarled. “Say it again. Scream it this time. Let the whole fucking block hear you again, since you like putting on a show.”

He set a pace that was ruthless. Relentless.

Your thighs shook. Your eyes blurred. And still—he held you there, bent over the desk, one hand in your hair, the other gripping your hip like he owned it.

“Next time you moan my name,” he growled, “it won’t be in my bed with your hand down your panties.”

He snapped his hips harder, deeper.

“It’ll be like this.”

Another thrust. Another gasp.

“Where I put it.”

Your breath hitched—sharp and high—as he slammed into you again, deeper this time, grinding in slow and cruel at the end of it. The desk shook. Papers scattered. Your moan punched the air between you like a challenge thrown back in his face.

And that just made him fuck you harder.

“You think this is a game?” Kylo growled, hips snapping into you so hard your thighs burned against the wood. “You think I don’t know what you’re doing?”

You clawed at the desk—nails dragging across the grain—searching for anything to ground yourself while he kept you split open, stuffed full, wrecked on the same desk you’d ruled from all morning.

“I told you to be ready to earn it,” he snapped. “And you come down in my flannel like you want a fucking prize?”

He yanked you upright by the hair, flush against his chest now, one arm banded around your waist as he drove into you from behind with brutal rhythm.

You gasped, head falling back against his shoulder.

“Was this your plan?” he snarled. “Make me break first? Make me fuck it out of my system?”

He laughed, low and dangerous in your ear.

“You’re not that smart, baby.”

You whimpered at that—half frustration, half fuck you, and it only spurred him on.

“Say it,” he growled. “Say my name again.”

You bit your lip.

He grabbed your throat.

“I said—say it.”

“Kylo—”

“Louder.”

“*Kylo—*fuck, please—”

“That’s it,” he muttered, letting go of your throat to drag his hand down to your clit, working you in tight, fast circles between each savage thrust. “Let’s see if I can fuck the brat out of you.”

You cried out, knees starting to buckle as your orgasm clawed its way up your spine. You were so close. So close. Everything was sharp and hot and his—the smell of him, the sound of skin on skin, the way he gripped you like a punishment and a promise all at once.

“You feel that?” he hissed, voice ragged against your ear. “That’s what happens when you push me.”

Your body shattered around him, hips jerking as pleasure tore through you, raw and wild, your moan long and broken and perfect.

Kylo kept going through it, pace rough and relentless, chasing his own release with growls ripped straight from his chest. You were trembling, gasping, nearly folded over the desk again when he finally spilled into you with a snarled curse—hands gripping you so tight you knew you'd bruise.

And still… he didn’t move.

He stayed there, breathing hard against your back, hips pressed tight to yours, hand still curled around your waist like you might try to escape.

You didn’t.

You couldn’t.

You just lay there, wrecked, trembling, completely silent now.

The office was silent now— except for the hum of the old ceiling fan and the sound of both your breathing.

Heavy. Shallow. Wrecked.

Your palms were still flat on the desk, fingertips curled, legs trembling so hard you weren’t sure they’d hold you if he let go.

But he didn’t.

Kylo stayed behind you, chest pressed to your back, hands still locked around your waist like he wasn’t ready to release you. Like he wasn’t done.

His breath ghosted against your shoulder. Hot. Quiet.

You didn’t speak.

Neither did he.

There was no need.

Because your body was shaking.

Because his was still buried inside you.

The loft was too hot.

You tossed and turned for hours, sheets twisted around your legs, the air thick and unmoving. Every time you closed your eyes, your brain started replaying the day—Tucker’s grin, Kylo’s voice, the way he’d looked at you from the stairs like he wanted to pin you to the counter and throttle you with your own attitude.

Which, honestly, was kind of flattering.

You kicked off the blanket with a groan and sat up, stretching. The sweatshirt clung to your bare skin, the hem riding up your thighs when you shifted. You didn’t bother pulling it down. It wasn’t like anyone else was awake.

You crept down the hall barefoot, half-blind, the floorboards cool beneath your feet. The kitchen light was off—but the glow from the microwave was enough to guide you.

You opened the fridge, grabbed a bottle of water, and turned—

Kylo was already there.

Leaning against the far counter, arms crossed, eyes half-shadowed by the dark. No shirt. Just sweatpants and muscle and heat radiating off him like a furnace. You jolted slightly, the bottle cold against your palm.

“How long have you been standing there?” you whispered.

He didn’t answer right away. Just watched you. Watched the way the hem of his sweatshirt skimmed your bare thighs, how the sleeves bunched around your hands, how your hair was still a little messy from tossing in bed.

“Long enough.”

You took a sip of water, throat suddenly dry.

He pushed off the counter, slow and deliberate. The space between you closed a little too quickly. You stood your ground, back against the fridge, the cold air seeping into your legs while his body heat soaked into the rest of you.

“You really gonna wear that around me and act like nothing’s happening?” he asked, voice quiet but loaded.

You looked up at him through your lashes, smirking. “It’s just a hoodie.”

“It’s not just anything on you.”

Silence stretched. You could feel his breath against your cheek now. Could feel the way his eyes dropped to your mouth and stayed there.

“You gonna scold me for stealing your laundry,” you murmured, “or are you just gonna keep staring like you’re starving?”

That did it.

He surged forward—one hand braced against the fridge beside your head, the other gripping your hip like he was afraid you’d vanish. His mouth crashed against yours, hot and unrelenting, tasting like frustration and something darker. His tongue swept into your mouth without asking, without warning, and you let him. Welcomed him. Matched his pace with something molten in your belly.

You moaned when his hand slid under the sweatshirt, fingers dragging up your bare thigh. His palm was rough against your skin, his grip tight, like he was trying to hold back and couldn’t.

“Fuck,” he muttered against your lips. “You’re killing me.”

“Then do something about it.”

And he did.

Kylo didn’t give you time to second-guess it.

One hand fisted in the hem of the sweatshirt, dragging it higher as his mouth sealed to your throat, biting down hard just beneath your jaw. You gasped, back arching against the fridge as his tongue soothed the sting—then bit again, lower this time, teeth scraping down your neck like he wanted the marks to show.

You clawed at his shoulders, fingers digging into skin, and he groaned low in his throat like the pain just spurred him on.

“Fucking knew it,” he growled, breath hot on your skin. “Knew you’d look like this—wearing my shit, teasing me, making me lose my goddamn mind.”

You grinned, smug even as your pulse pounded. “Then maybe you should’ve done something about it sooner.”

He growled—actually growled—and lifted you by the waist, setting you down hard on the countertop with a thud. You spread your legs instinctively to make room for him, the sweatshirt riding dangerously high, panties now completely exposed to the heat of his stare.

He looked wrecked. Chest heaving. Eyes black with want. Every inch of restraint gone.

“I should make you beg,” he rasped.

“But you won’t,” you whispered, dragging your nails up his stomach. “You’re too far gone for that.”

He grabbed your face—fingers digging into your jaw, thumb smearing the corner of your mouth like he was trying to memorize every part of you. His mouth crashed against yours again, messier this time. Tongue, teeth, desperation. You were both gasping between kisses, clawing at each other, no rhythm—just heat.

His hand slid up, wrapping around your throat.

You froze.

Not from fear.

From anticipation.

He squeezed—just enough to make your breath catch, just enough to make your thighs clench around his hips.

“Still feel like playing games?” he asked, voice dark and low.

You smiled through your shallow breath. “Only if I win.”

That broke something in him.

He shoved your sweatshirt higher and dragged your panties to the side with a practiced flick of his wrist, two fingers sliding through your slick like he already knew how soaked you were. His eyes flicked up to yours, satisfied, cruel.

“You liked watching me lose it,” he said.

You didn’t deny it.

He pressed his fingers inside—deep—and you cried out, grabbing his wrist as your body arched off the counter. He didn’t give you time to adjust. Didn’t let you breathe. Just drove his fingers harder, faster, while his mouth returned to your throat, adding another hickey to the line he was painting across your neck.

“Look at you,” he muttered, lips hot on your collarbone. “Dripping on my fucking hand, grinding on my counter, wearing my clothes like you own me.”

You couldn’t even respond—your brain was dissolving under the pressure of his fingers and his grip on your throat and the low, primal groans vibrating from his chest.

And then—he stopped.

His fingers stilled inside you. Just like that.

You whined. Actually whined, your body jolting forward, instinctively trying to chase the friction you’d been grinding against seconds before.

“Aw,” Kylo murmured, lips grazing your ear as he withdrew his fingers with slow, deliberate cruelty. “Poor baby.”

You gasped as the emptiness hit you—sharp, humiliating, hot. Your thighs trembled around him, hips rolling on their own like your body hadn’t gotten the message.

He brought his hand to his mouth and sucked his fingers clean, eyes on yours the whole time, slow and shameless. When he finished, he grabbed your jaw again—forcing your mouth open with a squeeze.

“Is that what you wanted?” he asked. “Thought I’d let you come just because you’re wet and desperate and finally acting like you need me?”

Your breath hitched, lips parted around a gasp you couldn’t hide.

“That’s not how this works,” he said. “You don’t get what you want just for looking pretty in my sweatshirt.”

His hand dropped from your jaw, and he stepped back slightly—just enough that you felt the cool rush of air between your thighs where his hand had been.

“You’re gonna come,” he said, voice dropping lower. “But not like this.”

You swallowed hard. “Then how?”

He leaned in again, his nose brushing yours. His words came out as a growl:

“When you beg.”

Your mouth opened, ready to fire something back—something bratty, maybe a little cruel—but all that came out was a broken sound, somewhere between a gasp and a plea.

And that smug, arrogant, absolutely maddening smirk curved across his lips.

He dragged the sweatshirt back down over your thighs, covering the mess he’d made between your legs like it had never happened.

“You’re lucky I even touched you tonight,” he murmured, stepping back fully. “Go back to bed.”

You stared at him, heat prickling up your neck. “You’re serious.”

He just nodded, turning away, his back muscles flexing as he walked to the stairwell without looking at you.

The bastard didn’t even glance back.

But right before he disappeared around the corner, he spoke—low and certain:

“Next time you come down in my clothes, make sure you’re ready to earn it.”

You didn’t move for a long moment after he left.

Just sat there on the counter, legs spread, panties askew, sweatshirt bunched around your waist—still wet, still aching, still full of the throb he’d left in his wake.

That smug bastard.

He hadn’t hesitated. Hadn’t asked. Hadn’t pretended it wasn’t what you both wanted. But then he’d walked away. Left you panting. Dripping. Needing more with no intention of giving it.

And that’s when you made your decision.

You slid off the counter with slow, deliberate grace, tugged your panties back into place, and padded back toward the loft bedroom—his space. Not yours. But the only one with a bed. And tonight?

That bed was going to be your battlefield.

You crawled under the sheets without shame, still in his sweatshirt, skin flushed and burning. You didn’t even try to be quiet.

You let your hand slip beneath the hem of the fabric, fingers trailing over your still-sensitive thighs. You were soaked. Ruined. Ready.

And you moaned.

Loudly. Unapologetically.

You threw one leg over the blanket, body rolling into the mattress like it was his body beneath you, like he was still there holding you down. Your fingers circled your clit with practiced precision, back arching as you rode the edge he hadn’t let you finish on the counter.

You didn’t whisper his name.

You moaned it.

“Fuck—Kylo—”

And then again. Louder.

You were putting on a show now. Letting your whines echo down the stairs. Letting him hear every needy breath. Every wet, filthy, furious sound he’d created and refused to finish.

Your orgasm hit fast, almost violent, shuddering through you with a sharp cry muffled only by the edge of his pillow.

And when you finally collapsed into the sheets, muscles trembling, breath shallow…