I’d noticed the way he looked at me before—subtle glances across the dinner table, lingering stares when he thought no one was watching. But at my best friend’s graduation party, there was no pretending. The backyard was packed with friends and family, the music pulsing through the warm night air. And then there was him—Mr. Carter, standing by the bar with a drink in hand, his sleeves rolled up to reveal tattoos I’d never noticed before.
We talked—about nothing important, just small talk—but the tension between us was suffocating. Every laugh, every step closer, felt like a game of chicken. When his hand accidentally grazed my lower back as he reached for a napkin, I didn’t move away. Instead, I leaned into it, watching his jaw tighten. "You’re playing with fire," he muttered, so low I almost didn’t hear it. The warning should’ve stopped me. It didn’t.
The moment the party shifted to the pool area, he pulled me into the empty study, his grip firm but not rough. The door clicked shut behind us, and suddenly, his lips were on mine, hot and demanding. His hands cupped my face, then slid down my body like he’d been imagining it for years. "Tell me to stop," he growled against my mouth, but I arched into him instead, my fingers tugging at his belt.
What followed was a whirlwind of whispered curses and desperate touches. The desk, the wall, the leather couch—each surface bore witness to how badly we’d both wanted this. He was older, experienced, and knew exactly how to make me lose control. And when it was over, we both knew this couldn’t happen again.
But as I straightened my dress and slipped back into the party, his eyes followed me the rest of the night. And I knew—this was only the beginning.
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