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The party was deafening. Somewhere in the kitchen, your father was probably laughing loudly with his friends. The bass from the speakers shook the floor like a fucking heartbeat, filling the entire house with a sense of life and chaos. You slipped away to hide from the noise, seeking silence in the dimly lit hallway at the back of the house, but peace was not to be found.
Before you could even breathe fresh air, a heavy, muscular figure slammed into you, pinning you against the wall. The familiar scent of gunpowder, expensive tobacco, and something special filled your senses. Ben. Your father's oldest friend, a man who had seen more of life than most, loomed over you, his green eyes dark with something far more dangerous than mere irritation.
"Damn it, kid, you keep running like some scared rabbit," Ben growled in your ear, his breath hot and faintly scented with bourbon. His hands, roughened from decades of battle and violence, gripped your hips so tightly they left marks. "You think you can just disappear?"
He didn't wait for an answer. His lips crashed down on yours, not with tenderness, but with a greedy, possessive desperation. It wasn't a gentle request; it was a fucking takeover. His tongue slid past your lips, claiming your mouth, while his body pressed you harder against the wall, making it clear who was boss.
His teeth grazed your bottom lip before he dived back into the kiss, deepening it until your head was spinning. You could hear your father's muffled cries and laughter coming from the kitchen just a few rooms away, but Ben didn't seem to care. If anything, the proximity to danger made him even more reckless, his thumb sliding roughly across your jaw as he greedily devoured every inch of your mouth. You moaned softly, sweetly, clinging to him.
"Fuck," he muttered, pressing his lips to yours when he finally pulled back just an inch, his breathing ragged and uneven. "You have no idea what you're doing to me, huh?" His eyes raked over your face, his pupils dilated with something dark and unrepentant. "Your old man would kill me if he saw this shit."
A smirk curled at the corner of his mouth, more predatory than playful. He leaned closer, pressing his hard chest against yours so you could feel every inch of his impressive body. "But screw him. And screw this party." His hand slid from your hip to your neck, his fingers tangling in your hair, tilting your head back. "You're staying here with me, do you hear me? Don't you fucking dare move."
The sound of your soft moan, pressed against his lips, seemed to ignite something primal within him. Ben let out a low, guttural growl deep in his throatāa sound that was simultaneously satisfying and hungry. He didn't pull away; instead, he pressed his lips to yours again, harder this time, his kiss becoming more demanding as he felt you melt in his embrace. His hips pressed against yours, giving you undeniable proof of how much he wanted you, right in the middle of some fucking party.
"Fuck," he hissed, pressing his lips to yours, his breathing ragged and uneven. "That's it, sweetheart. Make that sound again."
His right hand moved from your neck, sliding down the curve of your spine until his palm pressed against your buttocks, squeezing the flesh possessively. Then, without warning, his other hand slid up. You felt the warmth of his palm slip under the hem of your skirt, the rough calluses on his fingers sending an electric shock straight up your thighs. When his hand finally touched your skin, his touch wasn't gentle, but possessive, hot and heavy as he began to explore.
"Fuck, you're so fucking perfect," he murmured, his voice dropping to a rough, husky whisper that vibrated against your skin. You both breathed as if you'd just run a damn marathon, your lungs burning as you shared the same hot air. The muffled chaos of your father's laughter from the kitchen seemed like a distant, distant memory compared to the overwhelming reality of Ben's body pinning you against the wall.
His fingers tightened on your thigh, climbing higher, inch by agonizing inch. "You like this, don't you?" " he demanded, his green eyes fixed on yours with frightening intensity. "Do you like having your damn hands full with a man like me?"
"I fucking know you're doing this," he growled, reading the way your pupils dilated as his fingers neared your core. "Don't lie to me, baby. I can feel how fucking desperate you are."
He leaned down, biting roughly at the sensitive spot where your neck met your shoulder, sucking so hard he left a mark that would be impossible to cover tomorrow. He wanted you marked. He wanted every inch of you to bear the marks of what he'd done while your old man was busy drowning himself in cheap bourbon just twenty feet away. The risk of being caught by someone walking around the corner and seeing his best friend fucking his daughter against the fucking wall only fueled his savagery further.
Finally, his fingers touched your wet cunt, and he let out a low, guttural curse, almost like a prayer. "Damn... you're soaking wet with need for me." He pulled back just enough to smirk at you, that arrogant, self-absorbed smirk that made you hate how much you wanted him. "I guess you've been thinking about this as much as I have."
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