EPISODE 2- Don't Make Me Wait
(Ethan's POV)
The bass from the gym was a weapon, a throbbing pulse designed to numb the mind. I forced a smile, another easy, meaningless curve of my lips, and shook another hand. Keep it light. Keep it moving. My father's voice was a cold, clear recording in my head. "Tonight is a photo op, Ethan. A necessary step. Smile for the cameras. Be charming. And for God's sake, don't make headlines. The merger is too delicate." Gregory Marshall's warnings were always punctuated by the clink of ice in a glass of scotch.
I was a marionette, and the strings were pulled from a boardroom a hundred miles away. King of a cardboard kingdom. I accepted the plastic crown they placed on my head with a practised, self-deprecating shrug, the crowd roaring its approval for its golden boy. The title felt like a lead weight.
I needed air. Needed to escape the cloying sweetness of perfume and the empty congratulations. I slipped through the side door, the sudden silence a physical relief. The night air was cool, washing over me, and I breathed it in, trying to expel the veneer of the party.
And then I saw her.
Layla Adams.
She was leaning against the railing, a lone silhouette against the hazy glow of the football field lights. Her dress was a simple, dark slip of silk that clung to curves I'd somehow never noticed in history class. She wasn't like the others, preened and posed. She was… real. A frown of beautiful dissatisfaction on her face as she stared into the night.
My pulse, which had been a steady, bored drum, kicked into a frantic, jagged rhythm. This. This was a feeling. Not manufactured, not required. It was a raw, primal pull that bypassed every one of my father's warnings and zeroed in on something deep and hungry inside me.
I moved without thinking, drawn to her quiet rebellion like a moth to a flame. "Decided the party inside wasn't worth your time?" I said, my voice lower than I intended.
She turned, and her eyes—God, her eyes—were wide and wary. She tried for cool indifference, listing off my accomplishments like a Wikipedia entry. "Quarterback. Student council. Probable valedictorian." But I saw the flicker in her gaze, the quickening of her breath. She wasn't immune.
I closed the distance between us. The air crackled, and all my father's dictates faded into a dull hum. This wasn't about headlines. This was about heat. "And what does that reputation say?" I murmured, watching her, challenging her.
Her chin lifted. A beautiful, defiant gesture. "That you're used to getting what you want."
A thrill, sharp and electric, shot through me. Yes. This was what I wanted. Not the crown. Not the approval. Her. The want in her eyes, warring with her resistance. I reached out, my fingers brushing a strand of hair from her cheek. The touch was electric. Her skin was so soft, so warm. She gasped, a tiny, helpless sound that went straight to my cock.
My control, the careful mask I wore every damn day, began to fracture. "Is it working?" I asked, my thumb stroking her cheekbone, feeling the fine tremor that ran through her.
I saw the exact moment she surrendered. Her lips parted. Her body gave a tiny, almost imperceptible lean toward mine. An invitation. A yes.
I claimed it.
My mouth crashed down on hers. It wasn't gentle. It couldn't be. It was a release of every pent-up, stifled impulse I'd ever had. She tasted of punch and something infinitely sweeter, something uniquely her. She moaned into my mouth, and the sound unravelled me. Her hands fisted in my shirt, pulling me closer, and I groaned, wrapping my arms around her, crushing her body to mine.
She was all softness and fire against me. I could feel the frantic beat of her heart against my chest, the delicate line of her spine under my palm. I slid my hand down, over the incredible curve of her ass, and pulled her hips firmly against mine. God. The feel of her, the proof of her desire pressed against my aching hardness, was almost enough to make me lose it right there.
I deepened the kiss, my tongue sweeping into her mouth, and she met me with a hunger that matched my own. This was no timid girl. This was a wildfire. My other hand tangled in her hair, angling her head to take the kiss deeper, harder. We were a tangle of desperate hands and hungry mouths, a silent war of need happening under the stupid, paper-prom stars.
I broke for air, my forehead resting against hers, our breaths ragged and mingling. Her lips were swollen, her eyes glazed with pure, unadulterated want. My thumb traced her wet bottom lip. "Layla…" I breathed her name like it was the only word I knew.
The door burst open.
We sprang apart. Some girl—Chloe, her friend—stood there gaping. The real world rushed back in, cold and intrusive. I straightened my shirt, the motion automatic, my father's training snapping back into place. Composure. Control. But my blood was still singing, my heart hammering against my ribs.
I gave the girl a curt nod and walked back inside without a backward glance. But I felt Layla's eyes on me. I could still taste her on my lips, feel the ghost of her hands on my skin.
The music inside was deafening. The crown on my head was a joke. All of it was noise.
Headlines be damned.
I didn't stop walking through the gym. I pushed through the main doors into the senior parking lot, the humid night air doing nothing to cool the fire she'd lit inside me. I pulled out my phone, my thumbs flying over the screen. No pleasantries. No games. The impulse was too strong, too raw to be polite.
I found her number—everyone's number was in the student directory. The message was a direct echo of our encounter, a demand, not a request.
> The parking lot. Now. Black Audi at the far end.
>
> Don't make me wait.
I leaned against the cool metal of the car, the silence of the lot a stark contrast to the thumping gym. Every second stretched, taut and endless. Would she come? The doubt was a foreign, irritating itch. I was Ethan Marshall. I didn't wait. I didn't doubt.
Then I saw her. A silhouette hesitating at the entrance, the light from the gym haloing her for a moment before she stepped into the shadows of the lot. Her steps were hesitant at first, then quickened, decisive. My heart jackhammered against my ribs. She came.
She stopped a few feet from me, her chest rising and falling with quick breaths. The wary look was back in her eyes, but beneath it was a blazing curiosity, a mirror of the need coiling in my gut.
I didn't say a word. I pushed off the car and closed the distance between us in two strides. My hand slid behind her neck, my fingers tangling in her hair. I didn't kiss her. I just held her there, our faces inches apart, letting her feel the tension, the promise of what was coming.
"Tell me you want this," I commanded, my voice a rough whisper. It wasn't a question. It was a necessary part of the ritual, the final shred of propriety I had to offer.
Her eyes searched mine, a final internal battle. Then, her lips parted. "Yes."
It was all I needed.
I crushed my mouth to hers, and this time, there was no pretence, no hesitation. This kiss was pure possession. I backed her against the side of the Audi, the metal cool through her thin dress. My body pinned hers, my knee nudging her legs apart. A low, desperate sound escaped her throat, and it fueled the fire burning me up from the inside.
My hands were everywhere, learning her. One slid down her side, over the incredible dip of her waist, and gripped her thigh, hiking her leg up around my hip. The new angle pressed the hardened length of my cock against the very centre of her, and we both groaned into the kiss at the contact. The thin layers of our clothing were a maddening barrier.
I tore my mouth from hers, my breath coming in ragged gasps. "I need to feel you," I growled against the hot skin of her neck, my lips and teeth grazing her pulse point. She shuddered violently, her head falling back against the car window with a soft thud, granting me better access.
My hand slid from her thigh, up under the slippery silk of her dress. I traced the lace edge of her panties, feeling the damp heat already seeping through the fabric. Jesus. She was soaked. For me. The knowledge was a brutal, egoistic thrill. I hooked my fingers into the waistband and pulled, not hard, but with a firm, undeniable intent.
She gasped, her hips lifting slightly off the car, a silent, urgent offering. I slid the soaked fabric down her thighs, my fingers brushing against her sensitive skin, and tossed them aside into the dark. I didn't pause. My hand returned, sliding up the smooth skin of her inner thigh, higher, until my fingers found her.
She cried out, a sharp, choked sound of pleasure as I traced her slick, swollen folds. She was so hot, so ready. So perfect. I found her clit, a hard, eager pearl, and circled it with my thumb. Her whole body tensed, a broken sob escaping her lips.
"Ethan…" My name was a prayer on her lips.
I pushed one finger inside her, then a second. She was tight, clenching around me, impossibly wet. Her hips rocked against my hand, seeking more, seeking friction. I watched her face, her eyes squeezed shut, her lips parted in a silent cry of ecstasy. This was better than any victory on the field, any hollow crown. This was real. This was power.
I withdrew my fingers, bringing them to my mouth, never breaking eye contact. I tasted her, a tart, musky flavour that was entirely Layla. Her eyes flew open, wide with shock and a dark, burgeoning desire. A deep, guttural groan ripped from my chest.
My own fingers fumbled with my belt buckle, the fly of my tuxedo pants. I freed myself, the cool air a shock against my heated skin. I was rock hard, aching. I grabbed her hips, lifting her slightly, aligning myself with her entrance. I pressed the head of my cock against her, feeling her incredible heat, her wetness.
I looked into her eyes, my own breathing harsh. "Look at me," I demanded.
Her dark eyes, glazed with passion, locked onto mine.
I thrust forward, burying myself inside her in one smooth, deep stroke.
She screamed, a raw, unfiltered sound of pleasure that was swallowed by the night. Her inner walls clenched around me, a velvet vice of perfect, shocking heat. I held still for a moment, buried to the hilt, my forehead against hers, both of us panting, overwhelmed by the feel of it. The complete, utter rightness.
I began to move.
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