Rushing Katie: Ch. 01

My dorm room is a mess. Books stacked, half-drunk coffee cups on every surface, a wrinkled hoodie slouched over my desk chair like it gave up. 'Real legacy material.'

I tug the hem of the white lace dress again. It's tighter than I remember--especially across the hips--and the hemline hits high on my thighs, flirting with indecency every time I move. Probably tailored by my mom. 'To fit better,' she always says, which is family code for make sure your ass gets noticed. Three generations of Sigma Alpha Belle girls.

My phone buzzes.

Mom: "Don't forget to smile tonight. First impressions matter. And tuck your hair behind your ears--it softens your face. Love you!"

I roll my eyes so hard I swear I see last year.

Of course she wants me to smile. That's the Belle way--smile through the pressure, through the scrutiny, through the perfectly curated lies. Smile even when you're being lined up like a prize. God forbid I look like I don't belong at the most pristine, polished, elite sorority on campus.

I look like someone I don't recognize.

Tonight is the first rush party. All the freshman girls are required to wear white--some purity-symbolism bullshit that doesn't even pretend to hide what it really is. The party's at our brother fraternity, Omega Phi Delta. And everyone knows--it's tradition.

The Omega seniors wear smirks. The Freshman Belles wear white marking us as the prey.

I know what I'm walking into.

And still--I grab my heels.

A soft knock at my door. One knock. Pause. Two more.

"Come in," I call, smoothing the white lace against my thighs like I'm pretending to be the kind of girl who wants to be hunted.

He steps in--and stops.

His eyes rake over me, and his whole body goes still, like he's forgotten how to breathe. His mouth parts, but nothing comes out at first. Then, finally, quietly:

"Wow. You look... amazing."

I glance down. "Thanks," I murmur, fingers fussing with a sleeve I've already adjusted three times.

He closes the door behind him and leans back against it, hands in his pockets. Jeans and a fitted charcoal sweater that clings just right to his chest. Effortless. Familiar.

Straw-colored hair, soft and clean like always. Blue-green eyes that blink slowly when he's overwhelmed. Ethan is sweet. The kind of sweet that makes me feel safe.

We have been boyfriend and girlfriend since third grade. I have never not wanted to be his.

We grew up next door to each other--our moms were best friends before we were even born. We shared bubble baths before we could talk, tree forts before we could drive, and secrets long before we knew what they meant.

He's been my first everything--first kiss. My first sleepover that turned into something else, first boy to touch me and make me forget where I was.

We've done almost everything two people can do without actually having sex. Hours tangled in each other, mouths and hands exploring, learning what made the other one fall apart. Always stopping just short--out of respect, or fear, or something that felt bigger than both of us.

I'm still a virgin, technically. But that's never stopped us from getting creative.

"You don't have to go, you know. Just... stay here. With me."

God, I want to.

But I can't. Not when my mom's already texted twice to make sure I'm wearing this dress. Not when the word legacy feels heavier than my own name.

I smile--small, sad. "You know I have to."

His jaw tightens. Like he hates all of this--hates the thought of me walking into a house full of frat guys with their slick smiles and red Solo cups.

But none of that matters.

Because no party--no guy in that house--is going to change me.

He's the only one I've ever wanted.

"Ethan..."

"I mean it. You already got into school. Who gives a damn about some pretentious sorority party?"

I sigh and turn toward the mirror, fixing a loose curl. "You know it's not that simple."

He's behind me before I hear him move. Three strides, and his hands are at my waist--firm, warm, grounding.

"It should be," he murmurs. "Screw your mom and her Belle legacy bullshit."

I laugh--half breath, half bitterness. "Tell her that."

And then he kisses me.

Soft, at first--like a question.

His lips graze mine, warm and hesitant, testing the space between us like he's afraid I might vanish if he touches me too much, too fast. But I don't pull away.

So the kiss deepens.

His mouth opens against mine, tongue brushing gently, tasting me in that way that's always made my knees go soft. My breath catches. His hands slide over my waist, slow and sure, fingertips tracing the edge of the lace hem--the place where fabric ends and bare skin begins.

I kiss him back.

Greedily, desperately, like I'm trying to press every emotion into him through my lips, my body. Like if I kiss him hard enough, maybe this night will vanish, and it'll be just us again--back to sleepy goodnights and his flannel shirts that smelled like pine and clean laundry.

He groans into my mouth, low and aching, and then we're moving. Stumbling backward until the backs of my thighs hit the desk. His hips press into mine, and I feel it--how hard he is.

His hands grip my thighs, lifting me just enough to perch on the edge of the desk. He steps between my legs, and his mouth finds the curve of my neck, right beneath my ear--my softest place. I shiver, my breath hitching.

"We don't have to go any further," he whispers, voice raw. "I just want to feel you."

I nod.

I trust him. I always have.

His hand slides up the inside of my thigh, slow and deliberate, fingers skimming over the lace. Teasing. I tilt my hips toward him, my body already aching, already wet. His other hand finds my waist, anchoring me. His mouth crashes back to mine--deeper this time. Hungrier.

And then--

His fingers find the heat between my legs.

Barely-there pressure that sends lightning through me. I gasp against his lips, clutching at his shoulders, nails digging in.

Sliding the lace aside he strokes between my folds.

God.

We've done this before. Not exactly this, but close. Always close.

He knows just how to touch me--how to coax me to the edge and keep me there.

Tonight, I'm close.

So close it scares me.

"Ethan--"

He stills.

Pulls back just enough to look at me.

My cheeks are flushed, lips parted, chest rising fast.

But I shake my head. Just once. "Not tonight."

He studies me. Silent.

Then nods, his forehead rests against mine as we both try to breathe.

Sliding down from the desk slowly, heart pounding, thighs still trembling.

He watches me with something unreadable in his eyes.

"I still have to go," I whisper.

His jaw clenches. "Seriously?"

"It's important to my mom."

"What about what's important to me?" His voice cuts, sharp and sudden.

Regret flashes in his eyes, but the words are already out.

His hands drop from my waist. The space between us grows cold.

"You don't have to go," he says again, but this time it's not a plea. It's a challenge. "You're choosing to."

"I'm not--"

"You are, Katie. Don't pretend this is just about your mom. You put on that dress. You let me touch you like that--and now you're walking out the door to be some frat guy's entertainment for the night."

"That's not fair," I whisper, voice cracking.

"No," he says, louder. "What's not fair is me waiting around for a girl who says I'm everything--but still needs to prove something to people who don't even know her."

I blink, eyes stinging. "That's not what this is."

He runs a hand through his hair and turns to the door. "You think those guys care about you the way I do? You think they won't take one look at you in that dress and try to--?"

"Stop, it's not about the guys"

But he's pacing now, furious and raw. "You say you love me, Katie. But sometimes it feels like you don't even see what this is doing to us."

"I do," I say. But it's too soft. Too late.

He grabs the doorknob. I take one step. "Ethan--please."

He hesitates. I almost believe he'll turn around.

But he just shakes his head, eyes glossy.

"Go have fun with all the frat guys," he mutters.

And then he walks out.

Slams the door so hard the walls shake.

And just like that--he's gone.

The door stays shut.

With it, any hope that Ethan might come back in, wrap me in his arms, and tell me it's okay. That he loves me, that he trusts me.

But it doesn't open.

I stare at my reflection on my mirror.

Searching for the girl I used to be--the one who blushed when he first held her hand, the one who swore he was her forever.

This isn't going to change who I am, or maybe it will.

Same dress. Same hair. Same ache in my chest.

But something's different now. A hum under my skin. A pulse still beating between my thighs where his fingers lingered just moments ago

He didn't finish it and still, I feel undone.

Maybe he's right. Maybe part of me is excited. Curious. Hungry for something more. Something bigger than the safe little world we built together.

Not because I don't love him. But because maybe I'm not... finished becoming who I'm meant to be.

(ALEX POV)

Brooke's back hits the mattress with a soft thud, and she's already lifting her hips for me before I've even touched her. She wants it fast, rough, and messy. Same as always.

She spreads her legs like it's instinct--because it is.

Another party, another hookup. We do this every time our houses get together. She thinks she and I belong together.

Might as well get it over with early so I can spend the rest of the night pretending I give a damn.

Her dress is barely covering anything--just a scrap of red fabric clinging to her tits and riding up with one tug of my hand. I shove the fabric past her waist and grab her thighs, spreading her open like I own her.

She gasps--half moan, half challenge--and arches up to meet me. She knows I'm not gentle. She likes it that way.

Her nails trail down my stomach, dragging across muscle like she's trying to carve her name into me.

Grabbing her wrists and guiding them to my back, pinning her down as I lean in close, lips brushing her ear.

"You know what this is, Brooke."

She nods, breath shaky.

"Then stop pretending it's more."

I slam into her in one rough thrust, and she cries out, nails digging into my skin as her body bows beneath mine. She's wet, tight and clenching around me like she never wants to let go. Her legs lock around my waist, pulling me deeper as I drive into her again--harder, faster--until the headboard starts banging the wall in rhythm.

She's moaning now--loud and filthy--rocking her hips up to meet me like she's chasing the high she always convinces herself is love.

It's not.

She reaches for me again, fingers threading into my hair, pulling my mouth to her chest. I don't kiss. I don't linger. I bite. Suck. Leave marks she'll have to cover up tomorrow. Her whimpers get dirtier, more desperate.

She's close.

Her whole body's trembling--slick, tense, begging for it. I wrap my hand around her throat, not tight, just enough to tip her over the edge. Her eyes roll back, mouth slack, and she cums with a sound that's raw and broken--like I've ruined her and she loved every second of it.

I don't stop.

I ride her through it--hard, relentless, chasing my own release like I'm trying to bury everything I feel beneath her skin. I finish with a low, guttural groan, driving into her one last time as every muscle in my body locks tight.

Then nothing.

Just sweat. Silence. A slow, fading pulse in my veins.

I pull out and roll off her like I've just finished a workout.

Because I have.

Brooke's chest is rising and falling fast, her dress bunched around her waist, pearl necklace askew. She turns to me with that smug little smile, like she thinks she just blew my mind.

She didn't.

She's sprawled across my bed like she owns the place. Everything she does is rehearsed. Blonde hair perfectly smoothed behind her shoulders. Pearl earrings catching the light like she's starring in some vintage perfume ad.

I've already got one leg in my jeans.

Emotionless. Mechanical. That's all it was. Just another girl who thinks screwing the quarterback buys her something.

She stretches like a satisfied cat. "You're really not coming down with me?"

Here we go.

I grab a black t-shirt from the chair and tug it over my head, ignoring her tone. "Got shit to do."

She pouts--though even her pout looks smug. "Everyone's expecting us to show up together, Alex."

Of course they are. She's Brooke Halbrook. Senior. Sigma Alpha Belle legacy. Head cheerleader. The polished poster girl every girl wants to be and every mom wants their daughter to become.

And I'm Alex. Omega Phi Delta royalty. Quarterback. Captain. The guy people think has it all figured out just because I look the part.

I glance over at her and give a shrug. "Maybe they are but I don't give a fuck. You should run along and go play hostess."

Her expression shifts--just enough. Offended, but trying not to show it.

She smooths the hem of her dress, snatching her phone off the nightstand like it personally betrayed her. "Whatever," she snaps, turning on her heel. "You're such a dick sometimes."

She slams the door behind her, like it's going to make me chase her.

It doesn't.

I exhale and step out onto the balcony.

Cool air, better view.

Below, the party's in full swing. String lights flicker like fake stars. The front lawn's packed--bodies grinding, laughing, trying way too hard. Drunk freshmen girls in tight white dresses--rush uniforms--cling to red Solo cups like they're lifelines. Guys from my house already zeroed in, like it's a buffet and the new pledges are appetizers.

From up here, I can see more than they probably realize.

There's a little corner of the lawn, shadowed by the hedges and just out of reach of the string lights. Most people are too busy trying to get laid or get noticed to look that far past the party's glow. But from the balcony, I've got the perfect angle.

James, Mason, and Beamin are there--of course they are. Always the ringleaders when things start to get messy.

They've got one of the new girls pinned between them. Tiny thing in a tight white dress. Her hair's a little mussed, makeup still perfect, but she's flushed--flushed in the way that tells me she's tipsy enough to let herself feel everything a little deeper. And right now, she's definitely feeling it.

Beamin's behind her, hands firm on her hips, moving with a rhythm that says he's in no rush. James is in front, fingers tangled in her hair, guiding her mouth. Mason's next to her, one hand between her legs while he strokes himself with the other--waiting for his turn.

She's not resisting.

In fact, she's arching into it--rocking between them like her body can't decide which one it wants more. Her head tips back in a soft gasp. Beamin murmurs something against her neck. James kisses her like he's trying to steal the sound from her mouth. Mason grins, guiding her hand to his length like this is routine.

I know that look. I've seen it enough to recognize the exact second she tips over the edge.

She shakes, clinging to James's shirt, hips twitching, breath coming out in sharp bursts. Mason bites his lip and wipes his mouth like he's proud of whatever just happened. Beamin leans in closer, one arm wrapping around her like they've done this a dozen times.

I look away. Same shit, different year.

Then I see her.

She's off to the side, away from the chaos. Alone.

Short white dress hugging her like it wasn't made to, soft curls cascading over her shoulders and down her back. Not drunk. Not desperate. Just... standing there. Uncomfortable. Like she doesn't belong here and knows it.

She lifts her hand to tuck a piece of hair behind her ear, and for a second, she hesitates--like she's debating whether to walk in or run away.

Something about her makes me pause. Makes the noise blur.

She's not like the others.

And for the first time tonight, I'm actually interested.