Ethan never went out.

His idea of a wild Friday was a different flavor of ramen and the blue glow of his laptop screen. So when he announced, offhand, that he was “meeting some guys from work for a drink,” I almost choked on my wine.

“You?” I teased, tucked under a blanket on the couch. "You're going to be social? On purpose? Since when do you do… people?”

His eyes flicked to mine, that usual unreadable look pinning me for a second before he shrugged. “Don’t wait up.”

My jaw nearly dropped. Was Ethan actually going to a bar?

“Have fun, grandpa,” I called after him. He didn’t answer, just shut the door behind him.

The apartment felt too quiet without his grumpy presence filling it up. I turned up the volume on the TV, let a trashy rom-com play in the background, and poured myself another glass of wine. Then another one. By the third, I was warm and reckless, my mind started to wander to places it shouldn't.

Ethan never laughed with me. Never flirted. Never even touched me, except for last night.

Last night, when his hand had found my breast in the dark, and I’d let him—scratch that, I adjusted for him. I wanted it so badly I could still feel the ghost of his thumb circling my nipple.

I snuggled tighter on the couch, my legs shifting restlessly under the blanket. The movie blurred and my attention narrowed to the pulse between my thighs.

By the time the movie ended, my hand had already slipped under the blanket. Just the barest touch through my shorts at first, then deeper, firmer, circling the pulsing ache that had been driving me insane.

A soft whimper escaped my lips. I froze, glancing at the door, half-afraid he’d appear, but he didn’t. Only silence, just me, and the desperate need that wouldn’t let go.

I eventually gave in.

My hips rocked against my hand, desperate and shameless. The wet sounds were muffled by fabric, but I heard them, and it made me wetter.

“Fuck…” I whispered to myself, sliding my fingers past the waistband, finding my slick folds and playing with the juices. I teased them slowly, imagining it was his hand again. Imagining his rough voice telling me what a needy little thing I was.

When it wasn’t enough, I shoved the blanket aside, grabbed the throw pillow, and straddled it. My cami slipped lower as I moved, my breasts bouncing lightly with each desperate grind. The friction against my clit was maddening, almost enough, but not quite. I bit down hard on my lip, muffling a moan as I rode it harder, chasing a high that never fully came.

I collapsed back after a while, flushed and unsatisfied, my thighs trembling. Still wet and obviously Still aching.

The sound of the door unlocking snapped me upright.

Shit.

I scrambled to sit like I’d been watching TV the whole time, my heart pounding fast. But when Ethan stepped in, I realized I had nothing to worry about.

He was drunk.

Not sloppy, not falling over, but definitely looser than I’d ever seen him. His shirt half untucked, his eyes unfocused, and his hair slightly messy from the night air. He barely looked at me, he just muttered something like, “’Night,” and staggered toward the bedroom.

A pang of disappointment hit me. He didn’t notice my flushed cheeks, my swollen lips or my shaking thighs. He just crashed into bed like the world could wait.

I sat there with the last of my wine, staring at the empty glass. Then I sighed, dragged myself to the shower, and let the hot water beat against my skin. My fingers strayed between my thighs again, tracing the ache he’d left behind, but I stopped before it went too far. What was the point? Alone, it always felt like a tease.

By the time I crawled into bed beside him, Ethan was out cold. His breathing was steady and his arm was thrown across the pillow line that separated us. I lay there in the dark, staring at the ceiling, wondering if I’d dreamed the whole thing last night.

But then… his hand moved.

At first, I thought it was just a drunken twitch, you know—the way bodies shift in sleep. Until his palm cupped the curve of my ass. Firm but possessive, his fingers spreading slightly.

My breath caught.

He was touching me again.

I froze, my heart hammering, every nerve alive. His hand lingered there, squeezing gently almost like he was just testing. My whole body clenched with need.

I shifted slightly, arching my hips back into his palm like I was still asleep. The fabric of my shorts tightened, riding higher, and his hand pressed in harder. A groan slipped from his throat, low and rough, sending heat straight to my core.

God, I know he wanted this too.

I adjusted again, just enough to spread my thighs, opening space between them. My shorts rode up dangerously, the lace of my panties exposed. His fingers wandered lower, brushing the sensitive edge where my thigh met heat.

A silent plea throbbed in my chest. Please. Please don't stop.

His hand paused, then slid slowly inward, his fingertips grazing the lace. I was already soaked, and I knew he could feel it.

I buried my face in the pillow, trembling with the effort to keep still, to keep pretending. My hips tilted, guiding him wordlessly. His hand lingered there, cupping me through the thin barrier, making me ache so badly I could cry.

Then he stopped moving.

Just like the night before.

As if the line terrified him the moment he crossed it. His hand stilled, his fingers trembling very faintly, resting over my wet heat but not daring to push further.

I wanted to scream. To beg. To grab his wrist and shove it inside me. But I stayed still, breathing slow but heavy, slick and desperate under his palm, waiting to see if he’d keep going.

He didn’t.

The room filled with the sound of his steady breathing again, his hand still cupping me like a claim he didn’t want to admit out loud.

And I lay there wide awake, dripping and undone, my body still screaming for more.

My whole body burned, begging for something more, but Ethan stayed perfectly still, as if sleep had claimed him again.

Then, just when I was about to break and reach for him myself—his fingers moved slowly.

Testing a gentle rub over the thin lace, right against where I craved for him most. My lips parted in a sharp inhale, and I bit down hard on the pillow to muffle the sound.

He knew I was awake. He had to. No one was touched like that by accident.

The pressure grew firmer, his fingertips tracing slow circles before slipping beneath the lace. I was soaked, embarrassingly wet, and his groan against the back of my neck confirmed it.

“Fuck,” he whispered so low I barely caught it.

His fingers parted me, exploring and sliding through my slick folds before curling inside me with steady, deliberate precision. I gasped, clutching the sheets, every nerve of mine alive with the forbidden intimacy of it.

“Ethan…” It came out as a whimper, zero protest, and half a plea.

“Shh.” He moved closer, his lips brushing my ear, rough with restraint. “Don’t wake the neighbors.”

The silliness made me want to laugh, but then he twisted his fingers just right and I forgot everything but the ache spiraling higher inside me.

I rocked against his hand like a shameless, desperate slut. Weeks of silence between us, months of hunger I’d buried under politeness, all coming down in a single night.

When his hand slipped away, I almost cried out in frustration. Until I felt him pushing my shorts down, tugging the lace aside and pressing the hard length of his shaft against me from behind.

“Tell me no,” he murmured. “And I’ll stop.”

I didn’t..I mean I couldn’t, my silence was its own confession.

He eased into me slowly, stretching me around him, filling me deeper than my fingers ever could. My breath hitched into a moan, softened by the pillow, my body arching back into his.

“God, Maya,” he groaned, burying himself to the grip. “You’re so tight… so fucking wet.”

I bit my knuckle to keep quiet as he began to move, slow and steady, grinding me into the mattress with each thrust. The sound of our bodies meeting was a sloppy sound in the silence of the room.

He set a rhythm that had me trembling, rolling his hips with gifted control. One hand gripped my waist, the other sliding up to palm my breast, his thumb flicking my nipple until I squirmed under him.

“I’ve always wanted this,” he whispered harshly, his breath hot against my neck. “You pretending to sleep… driving me fucking insane.”

A whimper escaped me, He’d known all along I wasn't sleeping.

I turned my head just enough to meet his mouth, and the kiss was hungry, a bit clumsy, our teeth clashing in our desperation. His tongue claimed mine as his thrusts grew rougher and harder, pounding into me until the bed creaked in sync.

I came undone first. The pressure burst, shattering me into inaudible cries against his lips, my walls gripping him so tightly he cursed into my mouth. He continued fucking me through it, relentless, chasing his own release.

But he didn’t stop there.

Before I could catch my breath, he flipped me onto my back, spreading my thighs wide and sliding back into me in one deep stroke. The angle made me scream into the pillow, stars exploding behind my eyes.

“Look at me,” he demanded, catching my chin. His eyes burned, with something wild and dark. “I want to see you fall apart.”

I obeyed, staring up at him, my hair messy around my face, and my lips parted. His thrusts were brutal now, sweat slicking his forehead, and every one of his muscle straining as he drove into me over and over.

I clawed at his shoulders, wrapped my legs around his waist, pulling him deeper, needing more. “Please,” I gasped, not even sure what I was begging for anymore.

He gave it to me anyway.

He shifted, lifting my legs higher, pressing my knees to my chest. The new angle had me crying out, the pleasure almost unbearable as he hit every spot inside me, again and again.

“You’re mine,” he growled, pounding harder. “Say it.”

“Yes,” I sobbed, my back arching. “I'm yours. Always—yours.”

That broke something in him.

He slammed into me with a growling curse, his release spilling hot and deep inside me as I shattered again around him, my second orgasm tearing through me so violently I saw white.

For a long moment, we stayed locked together, our bodies trembling and our breath mingling in the dark.

Then he collapsed, dragging me against his chest, with his shaft still buried inside me. His lips brushed my temple, softer now, almost tender.

“We can’t go back from this,” he murmured.

“I don’t want to,” I whispered back, my eyes closing, and my body still humming with aftershocks.

The room was quiet again, but it wasn’t the same silence as before. It wasn't empty or distant.

Now it was full of everything we’d tried so hard to deny—desire, danger, and the sinful whispers we’d finally given in to.

When people hear I’m an assistant, they picture someone fetching coffee and shuffling papers in some corporate tower. In reality, I run half of Evelyn Hayes’s life—her meetings, her schedules, her flights, her social calendar, even her grocery deliveries. Without me, the woman would probably miss her own birthday party. It’s not particularly glamorous work, but it pays well, comes with room and board in a house nicer than anywhere I could afford on my own, and I genuinely don’t mind the order it brings to my days. Structure has always suited me.

What I do mind, however, is her daughter.

Lila Hayes. Twenty-one years old, a little wild around the edges, and far too sharp for her own good—or mine. I’d known her since she was still in high school, back when she’d trail behind her mother during summer breaks with oversized headphones looped around her neck, pretending not to care about the world spinning around her. She still pretends sometimes, but now she’s grown into herself in ways that are impossible to ignore. Ways that are, if I’m being honest, deeply distracting.

It was late one Thursday night when everything shifted. Mrs. Hayes was away for the weekend at some charity retreat upstate, which meant the house had fallen into an unnervingly perfect quiet. I was in the kitchen sorting through files spread across the marble counter—expense reports, vendor contracts, the usual administrative debris that piled up when you managed someone else’s entire existence. The house was dark except for the pendant lights above me, casting everything in warm amber.

Then came the soft pad of bare feet on tile.

“Daniel?” Her voice carried that same blend of curiosity and mischief she always seemed to reserve especially for me.

I didn’t look up immediately, mostly because I knew that if I did, I’d notice things I had absolutely no business noticing. “Lila. Shouldn’t you be asleep? Or out at some party with your college friends?”

She padded closer, her movements unhurried and deliberate. Without asking, she reached past me and stole a grape from the ceramic bowl near my elbow. “What are you doing? It’s almost midnight.”

“Work,” I said simply, sliding another paper into its designated folder with perhaps more focus than it strictly required.

She leaned against the counter beside me, close enough that I caught the scent of her perfume—something sweet and summery, like sun-ripened peaches. It curled around me in the quiet kitchen, warm and invasive. “You’re always working. Don’t you ever get bored of being so… responsible?”

I risked a glance at her, which was immediately revealed to be a terrible idea. She was wearing an oversized T-shirt that barely covered her thigh, her damp hair falling in loose waves around her shoulders like she’d just stepped out of the shower. Fresh-faced, completely relaxed, utterly at ease in her own skin.

“Someone has to make sure your mother doesn’t accidentally forget her own company exists,” I replied, forcing my eyes firmly back to the documents in front of me with what I hoped looked like casual disinterest.

Lila’s smirk was visible even in my peripheral vision. “You like it, though. Being in control of everything.”

Her words landed with more weight than she probably intended, settling somewhere in my chest. I exhaled slowly through my nose, trying not to let my jaw tighten. “Order suits me. It always has.”

She popped the grape into her mouth, chewing slowly and deliberately, her eyes fixed on me like she was actively testing boundaries just to see where they were. “You know, for a guy who practically runs this entire house, you’re incredibly serious. Has anyone ever told you that?”

“Once or twice.” I closed the folder with deliberate finality, meeting her gaze. “And you? Has anyone ever told you you’re deliberately annoying?”

That made her laugh—a real, genuine laugh that filled the quiet kitchen. Her head tilted back slightly, exposing the long line of her throat, her eyes sparkling with genuine amusement. “All the time. I consider it one of my better qualities.”

Her laughter should have eased the tension gathering in the space between us, but instead it seemed to pull everything tighter. The sound was warm and intimate in the empty house, wrapping around us like a physical presence. She caught me staring—of course she did. Lila never missed anything.

“What?” she asked, her voice dropping to something softer, more curious.

I shook my head, looking away. “Nothing.”

But she didn’t let it go. She never did. Instead, she stepped closer, her hip deliberately brushing against mine as she reached across me for another grape, even though there were half a dozen easier ways to get one. “You look like you want to say something.”

I finally allowed myself to look at her properly, really look at her, meeting her gaze head-on instead of dancing around it. “You should be careful playing with fire, Lila.”

Her lips curved into a smile that was slow and absolutely wicked. “What do you mean?”

For a stretched-out second, silence pressed down on us, heavy with all the things neither of us should say, weighted with possibilities we definitely shouldn’t explore. My chest tightened uncomfortably, my pulse climbing in a way I couldn’t quite control, and I hated—genuinely hated—how easy it was for her to shake the careful control I’d spent years building.

She took another deliberate step closer, close enough that I could feel the warmth radiating from her skin. Her voice dropped just enough to make my stomach flip. “Tell me something, Daniel. If I asked you to hold me right now, would you?”

I held her stare, every logical, responsible part of my brain screaming at me to shut this down immediately, to step back, to remember exactly who she was and who I was and why this could never, ever happen. But logic doesn’t always win. Not when she looked at me like that, her eyes dark and challenging. Not when her mouth hovered just close enough for me to imagine closing the distance.

“You don’t want me to answer that,” I said finally, my voice coming out lower and rougher than I’d intended.

Her smile widened, clearly satisfied with that response. “Maybe I do.”

Before I could formulate any kind of reply, she reached out and plucked the folder from the counter, skimming a random page without actually reading a single word on it. “This is incredibly boring, by the way. You should live a little.”

She set it down again, then rose up on her toes with fluid grace. She pressed a feather-light kiss to my cheek, it happened too quickly for me to stop, too purposeful to possibly mistake for anything innocent. My entire body went stiff, every muscle locking down.

Then she stepped back with that same infuriating grin, grabbing the entire bowl of grapes as her prize. “Goodnight, Daniel.”

I stood there frozen, watching her saunter out of the kitchen like she hadn’t just detonated something fundamental between us, my carefully maintained composure unraveling completely in her wake.

God help me. This summer was going to destroy me.​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​