Elara's POV

"I just don't fucking get it, Leo! They actually said it to my face like it was a dirty word." I slammed my bedroom door shut, not wanting Ben to overhear me losing my shit in the hallway. I paced the length of my room, kicking off my heels and letting them thud against the baseboard. "They looked at me like I was some kind of fucking exhibit in a zoo. A virgin. Like it’s a goddamn disease."

Leo was leaning against my desk, arms crossed over his chest, looking at me with that mix of amusement and pity that always drove me up the wall. He watched me strip off my jacket and throw it onto the bed, his eyes following the movement of my body but staying respectful, distant.

"Elara, calm down," he said, his voice steady. "It’s just talk. They’re bored. They want a reaction."

"A reaction? Leo, they told me I was 'acting like an alien.' They said I was fake because I haven't spread my legs for half the football team yet," I spat, running my hands through my hair to untangle the knots from the wind. "I feel like a piece of chewed-up gum stuck to the bottom of a shoe, but for the opposite reason. I'm too clean for them. It’s fucking suffocating."

I walked over to him, needing him to understand the humiliation burning in my gut. The air in the room felt thick, heavy with the scent of my perfume and the frustration radiating off my skin. I grabbed his arm, desperate for some kind of anchor.

"I mean, is it really that big of a deal? Am I really such a freak?" I looked up into his eyes, searching for an answer. "I’m twenty years old. I shouldn’t have to apologize for not wanting to fuck random guys in the back of a frat house just to fit in. But God, I’m so sick of being the odd one out. I’m sick of feeling like I’m missing out on this massive human experience."

Leo sighed, uncrossing his arms to rest his hands on my waist. He was warm, solid. A friend. "You aren't missing anything you aren't ready for. Look, don't let them get into your head. You're smart, you're hot—any guy would be lucky to be with you. It should happen when you want it to, not because Jessica and her clique think you need to drop the V-card to be cool."

His words made sense, logically, but they didn't quell the fire raging under my skin. The rejection, the alienation, it all mixed with a sudden, sharp spike of lust. I looked at Leo—really looked at him. He was here.

He was safe. He was a guy. The idea took root in my brain, nasty and sudden.

"What if I want it now?" I whispered, stepping closer until my hips pressed against his. I felt him stiffen, his muscles locking up under my touch. "What if I just want to get it over with? To rip the label off and throw it in their faces?"

I slid my hands up his chest, feeling the hard planes of his pecs through his shirt. "Leo, you’re here. We’ve known each other forever. Why not you? Why not just... fucking do it right now?"

Leo pulled back like he’d been burned, his hands flying off my waist as if touching me suddenly scared him.

"Whoa, Elara. Stop. Just stop." He took a step back, putting distance between us, his eyes wide. "I can't do that. You’re upset. You’re drunk on the drama, and you’re not thinking straight."

"I am thinking straight!" I argued, my voice rising. "I’m thinking that I want to feel something other than this fucking shame. I want to know what the big deal is. Come on, Leo. Don't make me beg."

"I'm not going to be your revenge fuck, Elara. That’s shitty, and you know it," he said, shaking his head. He looked genuinely uncomfortable now, his jaw set tight. "Your first time shouldn't be about proving a point to some mean girls. It shouldn't be because you're angry. It should be because you actually want the person you're with."

"But I do want—"

"No, you want to stop feeling weird," he cut me off, grabbing his jacket from the chair. "And I’m not going to take advantage of that. I’m going to go. We’ll talk tomorrow when you’ve cooled down."

"Leo, don't you dare leave me here alone like this," I snapped, humiliation washing over me in a cold wave.

"I’m offering myself to you on a silver platter and you’re just walking away?"

"I’m doing you a favor," he muttered, opening the bedroom door.

He slipped out into the hallway before I could say another word. I heard the front door open and then slam shut a second later, the vibrations rattling the pictures on the wall.

"Fucking coward!" I yelled at the empty room, kicking the bed frame. Pain shot through my toe, but I welcomed it. It was better than this hollow, aching feeling in my chest. "Fucking waste of space."

I flopped onto my bed, staring up at the ceiling. The room felt too quiet. The rejection stung more than I wanted to admit. I squeezed my eyes shut, willing the tears to stay back. I wasn't going to cry over him. I wasn't going to cry over a bunch of catty bitches either. I just needed to fucking breathe.

I lay there for a minute, the silence pressing in on me, my heart still hammering against my ribs like a trapped bird. I hadn't realized I was holding my breath until the sound of footsteps cut through the quiet.

They weren't Leo's footsteps retreating to the street. They were heavy, confident, coming from the top of the stairs. My eyes flew open. Ben wasn't home. He was supposed to be at work until late.

I pushed myself up on my elbows, my heart jumping into my throat. The door to my room, which Leo had left slightly ajar, creaked as it was pushed open wider.

I froze.

Standing in the doorway was Marcus. Ben’s best friend.

He was looming there, filling the frame with his broad shoulders, his dark eyes fixed right on me. He was wearing a black t-shirt that strained against his muscles and jeans that hung low on his hips. He looked older than us, rougher, infinitely more dangerous than Leo.

I stared at him, my mouth going dry. He must have come looking for Ben. He must have been standing right there on the landing when I was screaming at Leo. He must have heard everything.

Every single word.

The heat that had faded with Leo’s absence roared back to life, but this time it was different. It wasn't just frustration; it was acute, mortifying awareness. Marcus had heard me begging for it. He knew I was a virgin.

He knew I was desperate.

A slow, lazy smirk spread across his face, curling his lips. He didn't look away. He didn't apologize for intruding. He leaned his shoulder against the doorframe, crossing his arms, his gaze dragging over my body where I lay prone on the bed. The look was heavy, thick, and it felt like a physical touch.

"So," Marcus drawled, his voice a deep rumble that vibrated through the floorboards. "Leo's got a fucking hearing problem, doesn't he?"

My breath hitched in my throat. I scrambled to sit up fully, pulling my knees up to my chest to hide myself, but I knew it was useless. He’d already seen everything.

"Marcus... I... Ben isn't here," I stammered, my voice sounding weak and pathetic to my own ears.

"I know. I heard," he said, taking a step into the room. The air in the room shifted, charged suddenly with his presence. He smelled like expensive cologne and something metallic, like leather and tobacco. "I heard you telling him to man up. I heard you asking why you're the only one who hasn't been fucked yet."

I felt my face flush hot, a crimson blush burning my cheeks. "You were listening?"

"Hard not to. You have a set of lungs on you," he said, his eyes dropping to my chest, then slowly traveling down my legs. He wasn't ashamed of it. He was enjoying it. "He's a fool for walking out, Elara. Leaving a hot little thing like you alone, frustrated and begging for it? That's just bad manners."

The way he said it—hot little thing—sent a shiver down my spine that had nothing to do with fear. It was pure, undiluted lust. Marcus was a player. Everyone knew it. He fucked girls and forgot them before the sun came up. But right now, looking at the way he was undressing me with his eyes, I didn't care. I just wanted the burn.

"He... he said it was a bad idea," I whispered, unable to look away from him.

"Leo's a boy," Marcus said dismissively, taking another step closer. He was at the foot of my bed now. "He doesn't know what to do with a woman who knows what she wants."

He reached out, his fingers trailing over the duvet cover, inches from my foot. "Is it true? What you said?

That you're the last one holding out? That you're tired of being the good girl?"

I nodded, unable to speak. My heart was pounding so hard I thought he might be able to hear it.

"You shouldn't have to beg, Elara," he murmured, his voice dropping an octave, turning dark and seductive.

"Not when there are guys like me around who are more than willing to help you fix that problem."

He smirked again, a wicked, predatory glint in his dark eyes. He leaned down, putting his hands on the bed, boxing me in. The scent of him overwhelmed me, intoxicating and sharp.

"So," he whispered, his face inches from mine. "Do you want to try with me instead?"

Elara's POV

The silk robe was a flimsy shield against the afternoon heat, barely enough to cover the curves of my body. I lay sprawled across the mattress, the cool fabric of the sheets contrasting with the warmth radiating from my skin. The robe had slipped during my restless sleep, parting dangerously over my chest. The swell of my breast was exposed, the pale flesh glowing in the shaft of sunlight that cut through the blinds. The darker peak of my nipple was visible, a stark contrast against the ivory material, teasing the air with its exposure. I hadn't bothered to tie the sash; the effort seemed too great in the heavy, languid atmosphere of the room.

Seven days. It had been seven days of absolute silence from Leo. Since that disastrous confession in the living room, my phone had remained a dead weight in my hand. I’d ruined everything, hadn't I? I asked him to fuck me, and he looked at me like I was a stranger. Would I lose my best friend because I couldn't keep her legs shut—or rather, because I wanted them open? The thought gnawed at my insides, a cold pit of anxiety settling in my stomach. I stared at the ceiling, tracing the cracks in the plaster, wondering if he was avoiding me, or if he simply found me pathetic now.

The silence wasn't the worst part. The dreams were.

Every night since the incident with Marcus, I’d been waking up gasping, my thighs slick with sweat and a sticky, undeniable wetness. My brother’s arrival had interrupted Marcus’s taunting proposal, saving me—or perhaps damning me to this constant state of agitation. Marcus’s voice, that whiskey-and-sandalwood roughness, haunted my sleep. He was the one who had planted the seed, offering what Leo wouldn't with a smirk that promised danger rather than safety.

And God, I knew Marcus was dangerous. I’d seen the evidence firsthand, burned into my retinas.

The memory played on a loop behind my eyelids, vivid and Technicolor. It was a Tuesday afternoon months ago. I’d come home early, expecting an empty house. Instead, the hallway was filled with sounds that made my cheeks burn. Wet, rhythmic slapping sounds. A woman’s voice, high and breathless, crying out in a cadence that bordered on pain but was undeniably ecstasy.

I couldn't help myself. I’d peeked through the slight gap in my brother's door, my heart hammering against my ribs like a trapped bird.

The blonde woman was bent over the edge of the bed, her heavy breasts swinging beneath her in wide, hypnotic circles as Marcus drove into her from behind. I remembered the visual clearly—her skin flushed a deep pink, her back arching like a bow, her mouth open in a silent scream. Marcus was fully clothed except for his unbuttoned jeans, his hands gripping her waist with a possessiveness that looked almost violent. His hips snapped forward with a rhythm that seemed relentless, his pelvic bone smacking against her ass with audible force.

"Fuck! Yes, just like that!" she had screamed, the word echoing in the room, raw and desperate.

I watched, mesmerized by the sheer intensity of it. The way her ass rippled every time his hips met her flesh, sending shockwaves through the soft globes. The way she collapsed, boneless, before he pulled her up for more. It wasn't the gentle lovemaking I’d read about in books; it was raw, hungry fucking. I could see the sheen of sweat on her back, the way her blonde curls stuck to her neck. I could even smell the sex drifting into the hallway—a musky, salty tang that made my head spin.

Afterwards, the reality had been harsh. The woman had stormed out, tears streaking her mascara down her face. She’d slapped Marcus so hard the sound cracked through the apartment. She’d passed me in the living room, adjusting her skirt, her eyes wild and bloodshot.

"You stay away from him, little girl," she’d hissed, fixing her blonde curls with trembling hands. 

She was right. Marcus was a player. He was my brother’s friend, years older than me, a man who treated women like disposable toys. My brother would kill me if he knew I was even thinking about Marcus like that.

He was strict—no boyfriends, no sex until I had my degree. "You have too much potential to ruin it on some college idiot," he’d say. He certainly wouldn't approve of his older, scarier friend corrupting his little sister.

But my body didn't care about potential or degrees. My body cared about the ache that had settled between my legs, a persistent throb that no amount of self-soothing could fix. I wanted to know what it felt like to be that blonde woman. I wanted to know what made her scream "Fuck" with such abandon, to lose all control. I wanted to understand the mechanics of that pleasure, the stretch and the fullness.

I shifted on the bed, the silk robe sliding further down my shoulder. The air conditioner hummed in the corner, chilling the damp skin of my chest. I was naked underneath, the friction of the robe against my sensitive nipples sending sharp zings of sensation straight to my core. I squeezed my thighs together, trying to quell the rising tide of need, but it was useless. The heat was building again, a slow burn that demanded attention.

The doorknob turned.

My breath faltered in my throat. I wasn't expecting anyone. My brother usually barged in without knocking, but there was a hesitation in the movement that told me it wasn't him. The wood creaked softly, and the door pushed open.

I scrambled to sit up, my heart jumping, but my movements were sluggish, weighted down by the lethargy of my arousal and the heat of the room. Before I could adjust the slipping silk, a shadow fell across the bed.

Marcus Cole filled the doorway.

He looked exactly as he did in my dreams—tall, broad-shouldered, radiating that effortless, arrogant masculinity that made my knees weak. He wore a simple black t-shirt that stretched tight across his chest, highlighting the definition of his muscles, and worn jeans that hung low on his hips. His dark hair was slightly tousled, and those piercing gray eyes swept over the room before landing directly on me.

The air seemed to vanish from the space between us. I froze, my hand halfway to pulling the robe closed, paralyzed by the sudden intrusion.

His gaze dropped instantly. It wasn't a polite glance or an accidental look. It was a heavy, predatory stare that glued itself to my exposed flesh. The robe had gaped open completely as I moved, revealing one full, pale breast, the nipple hardening into a tight bead under the sudden, intense scrutiny of his eyes.

I saw it happen. I saw the exact moment his focus locked onto the dark pink peak. His jaw tightened, a muscle jumping beneath the dark stubble. The atmosphere shifted instantly from domestic to charged, the temperature in the room seeming to spike ten degrees.

He didn't look away. He didn't apologize. He just looked, his eyes darkening to the color of a storm-tossed sea. He took in the curve, the color, the vulnerability of it. A faint, knowing smirk touched the corner of his mouth, but his eyes remained fixed, burning a hole in the air between us.

"Your brother called you for dinner," he said. His voice was calm, almost bored, but there was a rough edge to it, a gravelly texture that scraped against my nerves.

The words registered, but my brain was short-circuiting. He saw it. He saw my nipple. He was standing there, looking at my naked breast, and talking about dinner like he wasn't undressing me with his eyes.

Then, the realization of my own exposure hit me. The humiliation, mixed with the lingering heat of my fantasies, boiled over. The contrast between his casual tone and the intensity of his stare was too much.

"Get out!" I screamed, my voice cracking and pitching high in panic as I frantically clawed at the silk to cover myself. "I’m naked!"

But even as I yelled, I couldn't ignore the flush of heat that flooded my cheeks, or the traitorous throb between my legs that intensified under his unblinking stare.

Leo's POV

The silence in my apartment was deafening, a sharp contrast to the chaos roaring inside my skull. Seven days. I hadn't just left Elara’s house that night; I’d practically fled like a coward. I sat on the edge of my bed, staring at the phone resting on my nightstand. The black screen reflected my own haggard expression back at me—dark circles under my eyes, hair mussed from restless tossing and turning.

God, how long had I loved her?

I closed my eyes, and the memories washed over me, dragging me back to the hallway of our middle school. I was thirteen then, scrawny and awkward, the target of every bully with something to prove. My family’s money made me a marked boy. They cornered me near the lockers, shoving me against the cold metal, their laughter grating and cruel.

Then Elara appeared. Even at thirteen, she was a force of nature. She wasn’t just the pretty girl with the glossy hair; she was the protector. She didn’t just tell them to stop; she physically stepped between us, shoving the biggest boy back with a strength that startled everyone.

"Leave him alone," she’d snapped, her voice fierce. "If you want a fight, pick on someone your own size."

They’d scattered like roaches. She turned to me, offering me a hand, her eyes soft with a concern that made my chest ache. Since that day, she was it for me. She was the sun, and I was just the planet caught in her orbit. I’d spent years cultivating our friendship, positioning myself as the reliable best friend, the one who was always there. It wasn't that I couldn't make other friends; I just didn't want any that weren't her.

And she was completely oblivious. It was painful, really. She treated me like a brother, a safe harbor. She’d change in front of me without a second thought, complain about dates she went on, and cry on my shoulder when they went wrong. It was exquisite torture, being so close and yet so far away.

Until yesterday. When she’d looked at me with those wide, desperate eyes and asked me to teach her.

My breathing faltered just remembering it. The image of her standing there in that living room was seared into my brain. The tight leather jacket that hugged her curves, the skirt that rode high on her thighs, exposing the soft skin I’d fantasized about touching a thousand times. The air between us had shifted so suddenly, turning thick and heavy.

I remembered the way my body had reacted before my brain could catch up. A rush of blood, hard and instant, straight to my groin. For a split second, I hadn't seen my best friend. I’d seen a woman I wanted to claim. I wanted to tear that jacket off her, wanted to see if her skin tasted as sweet as she smelled. I wanted to be the one to take her virginity, to ruin her for anyone else.

But then the panic had set in. The sheer terror of screwing up the most important relationship in my life. If we did that, and it went wrong—no, when it went wrong—I’d lose her. And if her brother found out? He was protective to a fault, a walking wall of muscle and aggression who deemed Elara too precious for any man, let alone me.

So, I’d ran. I’d put on my mask of principles, spouting some nonsense about not wanting to be a practice run.

It was a lie. A total, absolute lie. I would have given anything to be her practice run. I just wanted to be her only run.

Now, sitting here in the suffocating quiet of my apartment, the regret tasted like ash in my mouth. Why did I leave her there? I knew how she felt. She wasn't just looking for sex; she was looking for connection. She was tired of being the little girl, tired of being untouched. And who better to help her than me? Someone who actually loved her?

My hands curled into fists against my knees. The thought of her going to someone else made my stomach turn. Marcus. The name flashed through my mind like a warning light. I knew Marcus was hanging around her brother's house. He was a shark, always circling. If he got a whiff of Elara’s vulnerability, he wouldn’t hesitate. He’d take what he wanted and leave her broken.

I couldn't let that happen.

I stood up, pacing the length of the small room. The tension in my shoulders was coiled tight, a spring ready to snap. I was tired of being the safe option. I was tired of being the "good friend" who suppressed his desires until he felt like he was going to explode.

I wanted to fuck her. There. I admitted it to myself in the harsh light of the day. I wanted to feel her legs wrap around my waist. I wanted to hear her moan my name. I wanted to be the one to show her what pleasure felt like, to take her through it step by step until she was screaming.

The mental image was intoxicating. I could practically see her, her black hair spread out against my pillows, her pale skin flushed with desire. I imagined the weight of her breasts in my hands, the way her breathing would hitch as I touched her for the first time. I wanted to be slow, at first, to worship her body until she was begging for more. And then, when she was ready, I wanted to let go of the restraint I’d held onto for years.

My heart hammered against my ribs, a frantic rhythm that matched the turbulent thoughts racing through my mind. Was I crazy? Was I about to destroy a decade-long friendship on the off chance that she might want me back?

No. She had asked me. She had literally looked me in the eye and said, "Teach me the ropes." She hadn't asked Marcus. She hadn't asked some random stranger. She asked me. And in my stupidity, in my cowardice,

I had pushed her away.

I stopped pacing and looked at myself in the mirror. My eyes were dark, filled with a hunger I usually kept buried deep. I didn't look like a friend right now. I looked like a man who had been denied too long.

I grabbed my keys off the dresser, the metal cool against my sweating palm. I needed to go back there. I needed to find her. I needed to tell her the truth.

I’m going to tell her I want to fuck her.

The thought sent a jolt of adrenaline through my system, pure and electric. I wasn't going to apologize for leaving. I wasn't going to make up excuses. I was going to lay it all out on the line. I wanted to be the one to take her virginity, not because I was her best friend, but because I was the man who loved her more than anything on this earth.

I pulled on my shoes, my movements jerky and rushed. Tomorrow. I would do it tomorrow. No more waiting.

No more hiding behind the guise of friendship. The fear was still there, clawing at the back of my mind, warning me of the consequences, but the desire was stronger. It burned brighter, consuming everything in its path.

I walked to the door, my hand shaking slightly as I reached for the handle. I was going to see her. I was going to tell her everything. The anticipation coiled in my gut, a mixture of terror and exhilaration that made it hard to breathe.

I just hoped I wasn't too late. I hoped she hadn't already decided to give up on me. Because if I walked into that house and found out she’d turned to someone else—someone like Marcus—I didn't know what I’d do.

I took a deep breath, steeling myself. Tomorrow, everything changes. I’m going to make sure of it. I’m going to make Elara mine.