EPISODE 8- Golden Boy
(Layla's POV)
The leather seat was cool through the thin silk of Mia's dress. Ethan drove with a controlled ferocity, one hand on the wheel, the other wrapped possessively around my thigh, his thumb stroking the bare skin just beneath the hem. His silence was a dense, electric thing, and my own arousal was a throbbing, slick ache that pulsed in time with the engine.
He didn't go to the dorms. He drove into the hills overlooking Avalon, through a gated entrance marked 'The Crest,' where the houses were modern monoliths of glass and steel. He pulled into the driveway of one, all sharp angles and dark windows, and cut the engine.
The quiet was absolute.
He turned to me, the interior light doing nothing to soften the stark hunger on his face. "Out."
I fumbled for the handle. My legs were unsteady. The night air was chill up here, and I wrapped my arms around myself as he came around the car, not touching me, just herding me toward the vast, dark front door with his presence.
The door clicked open to a cavernous space. Polished concrete floors, a wall of glass showcasing the glittering town below, a single massive sofa. It was sterile. A showpiece. It felt nothing like him.
He locked the door behind us. The sound echoed.
"Whose house is this?" I whispered.
"Mine," he said, his voice flat. "One of them." He shrugged out of his jacket, tossed it over the back of a chair. His eyes never left me. "Take off the dress."
The command, delivered in this cold, empty palace, should have frightened me. Instead, it sent a fresh flood of heat between my legs. My fingers trembled as I reached for the zipper at my side. The sound was loud in the silence. I let the black silk pool at my feet, standing before him in just my heels and a scrap of lace.
A low, approving sound rumbled in his chest. He closed the distance, his hands coming up to cup my face, his thumbs stroking my cheekbones. "You have no idea," he murmured, his voice rough now, the control cracking, "what it does to me. Seeing you in a room full of people, knowing I was going to bring you here and have you scream my name."
He kissed me, and it was different from the club. This was slower, deeper, a claiming that was about possession, not performance. His tongue explored my mouth with a devastating thoroughness, and I melted against him, my hands sliding up his chest to tangle in his hair. The taste of him, the feel of his hard body against my nearly-naked one, was an addiction I was already powerless to fight.
He broke the kiss, breathing heavily, and swept me up into his arms. I gasped, clinging to his neck as he carried me through the dark house, down a hallway, and into a bedroom that was just as stark as the living room—a huge platform bed, more glass, more night sky.
He laid me down in the center of the black sheets, his body following mine, not covering me, but looming over me. His knees pushed my thighs apart, and he settled between them. The rough fabric of his trousers scraped against my inner thighs, a delicious friction. He was still fully dressed.
He looked down at me, his eyes drinking in the sight. "I want to watch you come for me," he said, his voice a dark promise. "Before I'm even inside you."
One hand slid down my body, over the curve of my breast, my stomach, and then his fingers were there, slipping beneath the lace of my panties. He found me soaked, swollen, and let out a sharp breath. "Jesus, Layla."
His touch was deliberate. Expert. He circled my clit with a firm, knowing pressure that had my back arching off the bed, a sharp cry tearing from my throat. "Ethan!"
"That's it," he growled, watching my face as his fingers worked me. He pushed two inside me, curling them, finding a spot that made stars burst behind my eyelids. I was panting, my hips rocking against his hand, chasing a release that was already coiling tight in my belly. He added a third finger, stretching me, filling me, and the sensation was so intense, so overwhelming, I could only sob.
"Look at me," he commanded, and my eyes, which had squeezed shut, flew open. His gaze was fierce, possessive, burning with a heat that matched the fire in my veins. "Come for me. Now."
It was the raw authority in his voice that tipped me over the edge. My orgasm slammed into me, a violent, convulsing wave of pleasure that ripped a scream from my lungs. My body bucked under his hand, my inner muscles clenching rhythmically around his fingers as he worked me through it, drawing out every last shuddering pulse until I was a trembling, boneless wreck.
He slowly withdrew his fingers, bringing them to his mouth and sucking them clean, his eyes locked on mine. The obscene, intimate act made a fresh, desperate ache bloom inside me.
"Now," he said, his voice guttural with need. He tore at his own clothes, buttons flying, until he was naked above me. The sight of him—all hard muscle and straining, thick erection—stole what little breath I had left.
He sheathed himself in a condom from the nightstand in one frantic movement, then positioned himself at my entrance. He pushed in, not with the slow, deliberate control of before, but with a single, deep, claiming thrust that buried him to the hilt.
We cried out in unison. The fullness was exquisite, a perfect, stretching completion. He held there, trembling, his forehead pressed to mine. "You're mine," he breathed, the words a vow seared into my skin.
Then he began to move.
This was not making love. This was a taking. A reclamation. His thrusts were deep, powerful, driving me up the bed with their force. Each one dragged over that sweet, sensitive spot inside me, reigniting the embers of my climax into a new, rising inferno. I wrapped my legs around his waist, urging him deeper, meeting him thrust for thrust, my nails scoring down his back.
The slapping of our bodies, our ragged breaths, his guttural groans—it was a symphony of pure, uncut need. He shifted, hooking my legs over his shoulders, and the new angle was devastating. He went deeper, hitting a place that had me seeing white.
"Yes… there… oh God, Ethan, right there!" I babbled, incoherent, my head thrashing on the pillow.
He fucked me like that, his pace brutal and relentless, his eyes dark with a feral intensity. "Say it," he gritted out, his body slamming into mine. "Say you're mine."
"I'm yours," I sobbed, the words torn from me, true and terrifying. "I'm yours."
It was the permission he needed. His control shattered. With a roar that was pure release, he drove into me one final, deep time, his body seizing as he came. I felt his throbbing pulse inside me through the latex, and it triggered my own second climax, a sharp, sweet detonation that clenched around him, milking every last drop of his pleasure as mine ripped through me.
He collapsed on top of me, his weight a welcome anchor. Our sweat-slicked skin stuck together. Our hearts hammered a frantic,synchronous rhythm against each other. For a long time, there was only the sound of our breathing slowing in the dark.
He finally rolled off, disposing of the condom, and pulled me against his side. His arm was heavy across my stomach. I was drifting, sated and utterly spent, when his phone, discarded on the floor with his clothes, began to buzz. Not a call. A rapid-fire, insistent sequence of alerts.
He tensed. Every muscle in his body went rigid.
With a curse, he leaned over, snatched the phone, and unlocked it. The bright screen illuminated his face in the dark. The color drained from it. His expression, so soft and satiated a moment before, hardened into something cold. Terrified.
"What is it?" I whispered, a chill seeping into my bones.
He didn't answer. He just stared at the screen, his jaw clenched so tight I could see the muscle jumping. Then he turned it toward me.
It was a video, playing on a loop. A shaky, grainy clip, clearly filmed from a phone in the dark club. The blue light, the sheer partition. It showed our booth. It showed him pulling me across the table. It showed our kiss—deep, hungry, obvious.
The caption underneath, in bold, viral font, screamed: AVALON'S GOLDEN BOY GETS HANDSY WITH MYSTERY GIRL AT THE BEACON.
Below it, the view count was climbing. Fast.
"My father," Ethan said, his voice hollow, utterly devoid of the heat that had filled it minutes ago. "He can't see this."
He looked at me, and the fear in his eyes was a physical blow. "We need to make it go away. Now. Before he does."
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