EPISODE 7- Just The Beginning
(Layla's POV)
The hum of the dryer was a fading vibration against my back, replaced by the heavy, rhythmic sound of our breathing. Ethan's weight pressed me into the metal, a solid, sweaty anchor in the dim laundry room. My legs were still locked around his waist, my inner thighs trembling with the aftershocks. He hadn't pulled out. He was still deep inside me, a thick, possessive presence that made my spent body clench weakly around him.
Slowly, he lifted his head from the crook of my neck. In the faint light from under the door, his eyes were dark, satisfied pools. He brushed a sweat-damp strand of hair from my forehead. The gesture was almost tender, and it was more dangerous than anything that had come before.
"Movie night's probably over," he murmured, his voice rough.
I just nodded, my throat too raw to speak. My jeans and panties were still tangled around one ankle, a stark reminder of how quickly he'd taken me, how little had stood in his way.
He finally withdrew, and I gasped at the sudden, shocking emptiness. My knees nearly buckled when my feet hit the floor. He caught me, his hands firm on my hips, steadying me. He didn't let go as he reached down, his fingers deftly pulling my clothes back into place, fastening my button with a care that felt surreal. He zipped my jeans, his knuckles grazing the sensitive skin of my lower stomach, and another shiver, this one purely reactive, ran through me.
He took care of himself, tucking his shirt back in, the whole movement fluid and unselfconscious. Then he looked at me, really looked. His thumb traced the swollen curve of my bottom lip. "You're a mess."
"Whose fault is that?" I managed, my voice a hoarse whisper.
A genuine smile, quick and bright, flashed across his face. It was gone in an instant, but it stole my breath. "Mine." He leaned in, his lips brushing mine in a kiss that was startlingly soft. "And I'll do it again."
He unlocked the door and peered out. The hallway was dark, and the movie sounds replaced by the distant murmur of people saying goodbyes upstairs. "Coast is clear."
We slipped out separately, a strategy that felt silly and thrilling. I rejoined Mia and Chloe on the now-empty couch, my face flaming.
"Where'd you go?" Chloe asked, eyeing my flushed cheeks.
"Needed air," I mumbled. "Laundry room was… stuffy."
Mia's knowing look said she didn't believe a word of it.
The next week was a special kind of torture. It wasn't the cold ignoring from before. It was this. A constant, simmering awareness. In psychology, he'd sit beside me, and his hand would find my knee under the desk, his fingers tracing idle patterns that made it impossible to concentrate. In the cafeteria line, he'd brush past me, his shoulder pushing me gently against the counter, his breath hot on my ear as he'd murmur, "Later." It was a promise that echoed through every hour.
The tension built, a pressure cooker with no release. We hadn't been alone, truly alone, since the laundry room. The stolen touches were fuel on a fire that was already an inferno.
This is why, when he slid a folded note onto my notebook as he left our chemistry lab on Friday, I didn't hesitate.
The Beacon. Tonight. 10 PM. Back booth. Don't be late.
The Beacon was the only semi-upscale club in Avalon, known for its strict dress code and its older, wealthier clientele—including, I'd heard, Gregory Marshall's business associates. It was a world away from frat basements and laundry rooms. It was public. It was a statement.
My heart hammered against my ribs as I stood in front of my dorm mirror that night. I'd borrowed a dress from Mia—a simple, sleeveless black sheath that clung to every curve and ended mid-thigh. It was a risk. It was an answer.
The club was a throbbing universe of bass and blue light. I felt a hundred eyes on me as I wove through the crowd, the gaze I was seeking like a homing beacon. And there he was.
In a shadowed booth at the very back, half-hidden by a sheer partition. He wore a dark shirt, open at the collar, and his eyes tracked my every step. He didn't smile. He just watched, a predator seeing his prey walk willingly into the den.
I slid into the booth opposite him. The noise of the club created a strange, intimate bubble around us.
"You came," he said, his voice cutting through the music.
"You told me to."
His lips twitched. He signalled a waiter and ordered a drink for me without asking. When it came, he took a slow sip of his own scotch, his eyes never leaving mine over the rim of the glass. The look was a physical touch. It skimmed over the neckline of my dress, down to where my hands were clasped tightly in my lap.
"You look like you belong here," he said, but it didn't sound like a compliment. It sounded like a threat.
The air between us crackled, thick with everything we'd done and everything left undone. The club's anonymity was an illusion. Anyone could see us. A friend of his father's. A classmate. The risk was a live wire, electrifying every second.
His foot found mine under the table, nudging my shoe aside. Then his calf pressed against my shin, the contact burning through my stockings. I jerked, but he held my gaze, holding me in place with just that look and the solid heat of his leg.
"Nervous?" he asked, his voice low.
"Yes."
"Good."
He leaned forward, closing the distance between us. The music swelled, a pulsing beat that matched the frantic rhythm of my heart. His hand came up, not to touch my face, but to slowly, deliberately, trace the line of my collarbone with just the tip of his finger. The touch was feather-light, but it scorched a path straight to my core. I shuddered, my lips parting.
His eyes dropped to my mouth. The mask of cool indifference finally shattered, revealing the raw, hungry want I knew was underneath. It was the look from the parking lot, from the lab table. It was a need that mirrored my own, desperate and all-consuming.
"I'm done with closets and laundry rooms," he growled, the words barely audible over the music. "I want you where everyone can see who you belong to."
Before I could process the possessive claim, he closed the final inch between us.
His mouth captured mine in the middle of the crowded club.
This wasn't a stolen, hidden kiss. It was a declaration. His lips were demanding, his tongue sweeping into my mouth with a boldness that left no room for doubt. One of his hands came up to cradle the back of my head, holding me in place, while the other slid possessively to the nape of my neck, his thumb stroking the sensitive skin there.
A moan, loud and unbidden, vibrated in my throat. My hands flew to his shoulders, gripping the fine fabric of his shirt. The taste of him—scotch and mint and pure Ethan—flooded my senses. The world narrowed to the heat of his mouth, the possessive grip of his hands, the hard press of his body leaning across the table.
He kissed me like he was starving. Like he was claiming territory. His tongue tangled with mine in a deep, sensual rhythm that had my hips shifting restlessly on the velvet booth. I kissed him back with equal fervour, all pretence of resistance gone, lost in the public, dangerous thrill of it.
He broke the kiss, but only just his forehead resting against mine. Our ragged breaths mingled.
"My place," he commanded, his voice a rough scrape against my soul. "Now."
He didn't wait for an answer. He threw a wad of cash on the table, took my hand in a firm, unbreakable grip, and pulled me from the booth. We weaved through the dancing crowd, a few heads turning, whispers starting. I didn't care. The feel of his hand wrapped around mine, leading me, claiming me in front of everyone, was the most potent aphrodisiac I'd ever known.
We burst out into the cool night air. His black Audi was idling at the curb, a valet holding the door. Ethan didn't let go of my hand as he tipped the man and practically shoved me into the passenger seat.
The door slammed. The interior was silent, cloistered, smelling of leather and his cologne.
He turned to me, the streetlights casting sharp shadows across his face. His eyes were pure, unadulterated fire.
"That," he said, his voice trembling with a tension I felt in my own bones, "was just the beginning."
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