EPISODE 4- Don't Lie To Me
(Layla's POV)
The leather seat was cool against my bare thighs, a stark contrast to the burning heat of him inside me. Ethan's rhythm was a brutal, perfect cadence, each deep thrust sending shockwaves of pleasure so intense they bordered on pain. My fingernails dug into the hard muscle of his shoulders, my legs locked around his waist, holding him to me as if he might vanish.
This. This was the feeling I'd been waiting for my whole life. Not the careful, controlled affection my mother preached, but this raw, consuming fire. It was a conflagration, and I was happily letting it burn me to ash.
He shifted his angle slightly, and a broken cry was torn from my throat. His thumb found my clit, circling the swollen, hypersensitive nerve with a firm, relentless pressure that had stars bursting behind my eyelids. "There," I gasped, my head thrashing against the headrest. "Right there."
A low, guttural sound rumbled in his chest. "I know," he breathed against my ear, his voice thick with a possessiveness that should have scared me but instead sent a fresh flood of heat between my legs. "I remember exactly how you like it. How you clench around me when you're close."
His words were a catalyst. My body tightened, coiling like a spring, the pressure building to an unbearable peak. His pace quickened, becoming more frantic, less controlled. The car filled with the sounds of our ragged breathing, the slick, rhythmic slide of our bodies joining, the soft creak of leather.
"Look at me, Layla," he commanded, his voice rough.
My eyes, which had squeezed shut, fluttered open. His gaze was locked on mine, a storm of blue intensity and raw hunger. In that moment, I wasn't the scholarship girl from the wrong side of town. I was the only thing that existed in his world. His entire focus was on me, on the way my body was coming apart for him.
It was the most powerful thing I'd ever felt.
The coil snapped.
My orgasm ripped through me with a violence that stole the air from my lungs. A silent scream formed on my lips as my body convulsed around him, waves of pure, electric ecstasy washing over me, pulling me under. I felt him pulse inside me, his own control shattering as he drove into me one last, final time with a deep, shuddering groan, his own release hot and claiming.
For a long moment, there was only the sound of our harsh, panting breaths mingling in the close, intimate air of the car. He collapsed against me, his forehead resting on my shoulder, his weight a comforting, solid presence. I could feel the frantic hammering of his heart against my chest, a wild rhythm that matched my own.
Slowly, the real world began to seep back in. The faint sound of a car door slamming in the distance. The smell of his cologne mixed with the scent of our sex. The sticky warmth on my inner thighs.
He shifted, withdrawing from me, and a sudden, shocking sense of loss hollowed me out. He straightened up, pulling his jeans back into place with a quiet, efficient motion. He didn't look at me.
The silence stretched, thick and awkward. The animal heat of moments before began to cool, leaving a strange vulnerability in its wake. I pulled my graduation gown around myself like a shield, suddenly feeling exposed.
He finally spoke, his voice flat, all traces of the raw passion gone. "You should go. Your mom will be waiting."
It was a dismissal. A cold, hard splash of reality. I fumbled for the door handle, my fingers trembling. I couldn't form a single word. I just needed to get out, to escape the confusing whirl of emotions—the incredible high and the crushing low.
I practically fell out of the car, my legs unsteady. I didn't look back. I just started walking, my heels clicking a frantic tattoo on the asphalt, the sound of the Audi's engine starting behind me a final, definitive period on the encounter.
*
The move-in day chaos was a welcome distraction. Avalon University's campus was a whirlwind of overeager orientation leaders, panicked freshmen, and parents clinging a little too tightly. I focused on the simple, physical task of hauling my boxes up to the third floor, of making my bed with the new linens my mother had bought on sale.
My roommate, Mia, was a burst of sunshine in a tie-dye t-shirt, her energy seemingly boundless. "This is it! Can you believe it? We're actually here!" she chirped, effortlessly hefting a box marked 'BOOKS' that had nearly broken my back. "I heard the frat parties on Greek Row are insane. We have to go to one tonight."
The word 'frat' sent an unwelcome jolt through me. Ethan. His family's name was on a building near the quad. His world was this world. I'd successfully avoided thinking about him for a whole hour.
"Maybe," I mumbled, busying myself with arranging my desk.
The room was small, a standard double, but it was mine. A fresh start. A place where Layla Adams, Avalon University student, could exist without the ghost of a certain pair of blue eyes watching her.
Later, as Mia and I navigated the crowded dining hall, that fragile hope shattered.
He was there.
Sitting at a table near the back with a group of guys who looked like they'd stepped out of a catalog. Polo shirts, confident postures, easy laughter. And Ethan, at the center of it all. He wasn't laughing. He was just listening, a bottle of water in his hand, his gaze casually scanning the room.
It swept over me, paused for a heartbeat, and then moved on. No recognition. No flicker of heat. Nothing.
It was like a physical blow. The memory of his hands on my skin, his breath in my ear, the way he'd looked at me in the back of that car—it all felt like a dream. A feverish, incredible dream that I'd conjured up.
Mia followed my stare. "Whoa. Who is that? He looks like trouble. The really, really good kind."
"Nobody," I said, my voice a little too sharp. I quickly looked down at my plate, my appetite gone. "Just someone from my high school."
The rest of the day was a blur of forced smiles and introductions. I met people, learned names I knew I'd instantly forget, and all the while, I was hyper-aware of him. A flash of his dark hair in a crowd. The low timbre of his voice carrying from across the student union. It was a constant, low-grade hum of anxiety under my skin.
That night, Mia dragged me to a party at Sigma Chi. The music was too loud, the house too packed, the beer too cheap. I felt that familiar ghost-at-the-feast sensation creeping back in. I was about to make an excuse to leave when I saw him again.
He was leaning against a doorway that led to a back hall, a red plastic cup in his hand. And this time, he was looking directly at me. His expression was unreadable, but his gaze was a laser, cutting through the crowd, the noise, the chaos, and pinning me in place.
My heart stammered against my ribs. Mia was chattering beside me, but her words were just noise. The entire party faded into a dull roar. There was only him and the silent, potent challenge in his eyes.
He didn't smile. He didn't gesture. He simply pushed off the doorframe and turned, disappearing down the dark hallway.
The message was as clear as if he'd sent another text. An invitation. A command.
My feet were moving before my brain could form a coherent thought. I mumbled something to Mia about finding the bathroom and slipped through the crowd, my pulse a frantic drumbeat in my ears. I turned the corner into the hallway. It was darker, quieter, lined with closed doors.
He was waiting, leaning against the wall next to a janitor's closet. He reached out as I approached, his hand wrapping around my wrist, his grip firm and sure. He didn't say a word. He just pulled me into the small, dark room, clicking the lock shut behind us.
The space was cramped, smelling faintly of bleach and mop water. The thumping bass from the party was muffled, a distant heartbeat.
He backed me against a shelf of cleaning supplies, his body caging me in. His other hand came up, his fingers tilting my chin up, forcing me to meet his eyes. The hunger was back, blazing and unmistakable.
"You've been avoiding me," he stated, his voice a low rumble in the dark.
"I… I haven't," I lied, my breath catching as his thumb brushed my lip.
"Don't lie to me," he whispered, his mouth inches from mine. "I've been watching you all day. I know you felt it too."
His free hand slid down my side, over my hip, his fingers dipping under the waistband of my jeans. "This pull. This… need."
His touch was electric, branding me through the denim. All my resolve, my plans for a fresh start, evaporated. My body arched into his of its own volition, a silent surrender.
"Tell me you don't want this," he breathed, his lips grazing mine, a ghost of a kiss. "Tell me to stop, and I will."
I knew I should. I knew this was a complication, a risk, a recipe for heartbreak. But my body was screaming the truth. My hips pressed against his hand, seeking more pressure.
My voice was a hoarse, desperate whisper.
—