The Halloween Party - Part 7

I thought seeing a girl would fix it.

Her name was Jenna — blond, cute, a little flirty, and completely oblivious to the fact that my thoughts weren’t really on her. I told myself it was proof: I’m not into guys. Just curious. That’s all. I leaned into her laugh, held her hand, even kissed her lightly on the lips, trying to convince myself this was normal.

Meanwhile, Brody didn’t show up. Not once. Not a text, not a glance, nothing. My chest ached with the absence, a sharp, burning jealousy I couldn’t name. Every time I felt him near in memory, every flicker of imagination, my cock twitched against my jeans like it had a mind of its own.

By the time we got back to my place, Jenna had gone home, happy and unsuspecting, and I was left alone with the emptiness of the room. And the memory of Brody.

I paced, hands tugging at my hair, stomach twisting with frustration. I didn’t want to admit it, but every moment I’d tried to prove myself “straight,” my body had betrayed me. My mind was filled with him — the mask, the mouth, the hands that made me shiver, the way he’d moaned my name.

And then he appeared.

Door creaked. He leaned against the frame, arms crossed, eyes dark. His presence hit me like a punch.

“You avoided me,” I said, voice sharp, breath uneven.

“I didn’t avoid you,” he snapped back, jaw tight. “You were busy proving something that doesn’t matter.”

“Doesn’t matter?” I laughed, bitter. “Tell me that while you’re pretending not to care, while I’m trying to forget you exist.”

He stepped forward, a dangerous, slow step that made my knees weak. “Forget me?” he repeated. “You wished for me last night. You can try to hide it all you want, but I saw it. Felt it.”

I swallowed hard. “I’m not—fuck, I’m not—” My words cut off as his hand shot out, gripping my jaw and tilting my head back. His lips crushed mine, hard, angry, desperate.

I gasped, knees nearly buckling. My hands pressed against his chest, but he shoved me against the wall, pinning me. Breath hot, cock hard, heart hammering.

“You’re mine,” he hissed.

“I—” I tried to argue, but it was useless. My body didn’t listen. My hands roamed his chest, tugging at his shirt, pulling him closer. His hips pressed into mine, his hardness nudging, teasing, begging for contact.

He kissed me harder, teeth clashing with mine, hands roaming my back, squeezing, gripping. The wall dug into my shoulder as I moaned, muffled but raw. I’d never felt so exposed, so needy.

“Fuck, Brody—” I groaned, desperate, nails scraping along his back.

“Say it,” he demanded, voice low, grinding against me.

“Ethan—no—wait, fuck!” I cursed myself, voice breaking as he pressed into me more.

Every push, every grind, every press against the wall made me ache. I was wet, hard, trembling, and he was the same — cock straining, hands devouring my torso.

And then it happened. The friction, the heat, the pent-up tension exploded. My body jerked, rocking against his, my release coating both of us, hot and sticky, moans tearing out. He groaned deep, shoving me harder against the wall, his own climax catching me off-guard as he shivered against me.

We stayed pinned, heaving, foreheads pressed together, lips brushing in ragged, desperate kisses. The anger had melted, replaced with a raw, undeniable need. My hands tangled in his hair, tugging, kneading, claiming him, and he responded in kind, pressing into me, biting, grinding, groaning my name until it was almost a growl.

Finally, after what felt like forever, we pulled back slightly, chests heaving, skin slick, hearts hammering.

I swallowed, voice hoarse. “We… can’t stop, can we?”

He smirked, leaning down to kiss my jaw. “No. Not ever.”

And for the first time, I didn’t fight it. Not anymore.