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.

Elara's POV

"Nice boob."

The words hung in the air, crude and jarring, cutting through the lingering heat of the memory. That had been Marcus's first comment the moment he’d realized my silk robe was gaping open. Not an apology, not a polite averting of his eyes, but a blunt, appreciative assessment delivered with that signature arrogant smirk.

The fallout had been immediate and loud. My brother, usually composed, had been a thundercloud of protective rage. He’d banned Marcus from the house—temporarily, at least—and had turned his formidable glare onto me.

"You are not to be walking around naked anywhere in this house," he’d decreed, his voice leaving no room for argument. "It’s inappropriate, Elara. We have guests. You have a reputation to think of."

I’d rolled my eyes so hard I’d seen my own brain. "It’s my house, too. And what, exactly, constitutes 'naked'?

Am I supposed to wear a burqa to the bathroom?"

"You know what I mean," he’d growled, pacing the living room floor. "Just... keep covered. I don't want to walk in and see things no brother should ever have to see."

"God, you're dramatic," I’d shot back, crossing my arms over my chest. "What about when I shower? Can I be naked then? Or should I wash with my clothes on to preserve my delicate virtue?"

Marcus had been leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed over his massive chest, trying—and failing—to suppress a grin. The corner of his mouth had twitched, that infuriatingly attractive dimple flashing as he fought back a laugh. My brother had shot him a look that promised violence if he uttered a single word, effectively silencing him.

That was two days ago. Now, the house was blessedly, finally empty. My brother had left for the city early that morning for a week-long business trip, and the silence was a luxury I intended to indulge in. No lectures, no prying eyes, no tension thick enough to choke on.

I padded into my bedroom, stripping off my clothes with reckless abandon. The air conditioning was broken again—a common occurrence in this old house—and the humidity was already climbing, making the air thick and heavy. I needed to wash off the grime of the day and the lingering frustration of my brother's overprotectiveness.

I didn't bother grabbing a towel. I didn't bother with a robe. It was just me in the house, alone. I walked down the hallway, the cool wood of the floorboards soothing against the soles of my feet, and stepped into the bathroom. The steam from the shower I’d started running already fogged up the mirror, turning the room into a hazy, private sanctuary.

I stepped under the spray, letting the hot water pummel my skin. It felt incredible, beating away the stress, loosening the knots in my shoulders. I washed my hair, the scent of vanilla and lavender filling the humid air, and stood there for a long time, just letting the water run over me. I felt clean. I felt free.

But as the steam began to build, the room grew uncomfortably warm. The small window was painted shut, and the exhaust fan rattled uselessly. The air grew heavy, thick with moisture, making it hard to draw a full breath. A bead of sweat trickled down my temple, mingling with the shower spray.

I decided I’d had enough. I reached for the handle to slide the glass door open and step out. I turned the knob. It groaned, but it didn't budge. I frowned, water dripping from my eyelashes, and tried again. I twisted it harder, putting my shoulder into it.

Nothing.

Panic, cold and sharp, spiked in my chest. I jiggled the handle, pushed, pulled, but the door was stuck fast.

The latch seemed to have jammed in the humidity, the frame swelling around the glass. I was trapped in a sauna of my own making.

"Great," I muttered, wiping the water from my face. "Just great."

I looked around for something to pry it open—a hairbrush, a bottle of shampoo—but I’d come in completely empty-handed. The heat was pressing in on me now, making my head spin slightly. I needed to get out. I needed air.

Then, through the rushing sound of the water and the buzzing in my ears, I heard a noise.

Click.

The front door.

My heart leaped. My brother was back? He never forgot anything. He must have forgotten his passport or his laptop.

"Ben!" I shouted, hoping the sound would carry through the thin walls and the running water. "Ben! I'm in the bathroom! The door is stuck!"

Silence for a moment. Then, heavy footsteps in the hallway. Boots. My heart skipped a beat. Ben didn't wear boots in the house. He strictly enforced a no-shoes policy.

"Elara?"

The voice that answered wasn't my brother's. It was deep, rough, and unmistakably amused.

Marcus.

My stomach dropped into my toes. I froze, my hands hovering over my chest, suddenly acutely aware of my complete and total nudity. The water beat down on my back, but I felt cold all over.

"What... what are you doing here?" I stammered, my voice echoing off the tiled walls.

"I forgot my phone," he replied, his voice drawing closer. I could picture him leaning against the bathroom door right now, a smug look on his face. "Ben said I could swing by and grab it. You okay in there? You sound distressed."

"I'm fine!" I lied, my voice pitching high. "Go away!"

"You don't sound fine," he said. There was a note of concern there, buried under the layers of arrogance. "Is everything okay?"

"Go away, Marcus!" I screamed, desperate now. The last thing I needed was for him to break down the door and find me standing here like a wet, naked seal. "I'm... I'm not dressed!"

A low chuckle drifted through the wood. "I'm well aware of your aversion to clothing, Elara. Open up."

"No!"

The next second, the door shook. There was a heavy thud against the frame, and then the sound of wood splintering. The lock gave way with a sharp crack, and the door swung open.

I shrieked, jumping back into the shower stall, but it was too late. He was already there.

Marcus stood in the doorway, filling the frame. The steam curled around him like a serpent, but his gaze was laser-focused, cutting through the haze. He looked at me—really looked at me. There was nowhere to hide.

The glass door was wide open, and I was fully exposed.

I saw the shock register first, his eyes widening fractionally, and then the heat flooded in. His gaze dragged over my wet skin, taking in the droplets clinging to my shoulders, the water cascading down my stomach, and the dark, triangle between my legs. He saw everything.

I reacted on instinct, slapping my hands over my breasts and crossing my legs, my face burning so hot I thought I might combust. "You pervert!" I screamed, humiliation washing over me in waves. "Get out! Get out!"

"You asshole!" I yelled, my voice cracking. "You did that on purpose!"

"I didn't," he said calmly, finally turning his back to me. He crossed his arms over his chest, leaning a shoulder against the doorframe, presenting his broad back to me. "I heard you shouting. I thought you’d passed out in the heat. The steam is pretty thick in here."

I stood there, dripping water and shame, my heart hammering against my ribs like a trapped bird. He hadn't looked. Well, he had, at first, but he’d turned away. He hadn't leered or laughed. He’d... he’d come to check on me.

The anger drained out of me, leaving me feeling small and foolish. I was naked, wet, and humiliated, and he was being annoyingly gentlemanly.

"I... I'm sorry," I whispered, the words barely audible over the shower. "The handle jammed. I panicked."

"It happens," he said, his voice low and soothing. "Old house, cheap hardware. Ben needs to get this thing fixed."

He stood there with his back to me, the muscles in his shoulders shifting slightly under his black t-shirt. He didn't move. He didn't try to peek. He just waited.

"Can you... can you hand me a towel?" I asked, my voice trembling.

"There aren't any in here," he reminded me. "You didn't bring any in, remember?"

Right. Because I was an idiot.

"Go get one," I ordered, trying to regain some semblance of authority, even though I was currently huddled in the corner of a shower stall.

"I will," he said. He turned his head slightly, just enough that I could see the line of his jaw, the stubble darkening his skin. "But first, answer me one thing."

"What?"

"In the living room the other day," he said, his tone dropping, becoming heavier, more intent. "When I asked if you wanted to try with me instead."

My breath caught. The memory of that moment, the electricity between us, the way his voice had lowered to a sinful murmur, flashed through my mind.

"You didn't say yes," Marcus continued, his voice like velvet rubbing against raw nerves. "But you didn't say no, either. So I'm asking you again, Elara. Right now. While we're being honest."

He shifted his weight, turning just a fraction more, though he kept his eyes politely averted. The air in the bathroom seemed to vibrate with the question.

"Do you want to have sex with me?"