Owen
OWEN
My pulse hammers as I glance around the foyer, contemplating whether I can slip away without my absence being noticed.
The mansion is heaving with partygoers and socialites, like a goddamn afterparty for a film premier, complete with red carpet on the stairs. I shouldn’t be surprised Laya is beautiful, a social butterfly with an air of sophistication that money can’t buy. Her body is chiseled to perfection, with olive skin and long waves of dark hair. Those luscious red lips of hers are naturally plump, not from the Botox shit her friends inject into themselves, and her fucking eyes, they’re the brightest green you’ve ever seen. She’s unique in every sense of the word, and with a promising career ahead of her in the fashion industry, the girl has it all.
My mouth becomes dry just thinking of her while waiting with bated breath for her to greet her guests.
I’d always assumed she wanted to become a model with looks as beautiful as hers, but she scoffed at the notion and scrunched her nose when I helped her practice for a mock job interview when she was fifteen.
Her friends sat gawking at me with rosy cheeks, but not Laya. She would throw her hair over her shoulder, straighten her back, raise her chin, and feign confidence whenever she was around me. I hated it. Hated how she felt the need to put on a display, but I hated it more because I understood it. She wanted to impress me.
Laya Kavanagh has had a crush on me for as long as I can remember, only now she’s old enough to act on it, and my heart pounds erratically at the thought.
I’ve been feeling angsty all day, and she hasn’t even made her grand entrance yet. I glance up the stairs again, my palms sweating while clutching the gift in my pocket I don’t want anyone to see. Somehow, I made it to the bottom of the staircase, now leaning against the wall as if I’m not some creep waiting for a glimpse of her, a stolen moment I can present her with the only item I have left of my mother, the one I took from around her cold neck.
Flicking my eyes left and right, I triple-check my friends are out of the vicinity, then make a run for it. Grabbing a hold of the banister, I take two steps at a time and dash up to her bedroom.
My feet freeze at her door and the blood in my veins bubbles with trepidation, a knot sitting heavy in my stomach. Fuck me, what the hell is wrong with me? I scrub my sweaty palms down my pants as I stare at the door.
Jesus.
Maybe it’s the fact she’s no longer jailbait, that I’m standing outside her bedroom door. Somewhere I’ve no place to be.
Knocking, there’s a slight tremble in my fist. Shit, that’s new too.
“Come in.” Her voice is as sweet as honey, and I suddenly want more of it, as if I haven’t heard it a thousand times before. I mean, she followed me around for years like a love-struck puppy. She even got herself the nickname of “’s helper” as a kid because she was constantly looking for an excuse to be by my side.
Her familiar scent invades me the moment I step into her room, causing me to suck in a sharp breath. My focus zeros in on her vanity and the abundance of familiar photos and cutouts of the future she longs for. When our eyes lock in the mirror, I swear she can see deep into my soul—every sordid truth, every longing, desire, and thought riddled with the sickening guilt that has consumed me for even allowing it to creep into my mind. Her breath hitches, as if unearthing those truths, stripping me bare, and I stand there frozen, finally allowing the pent-up feelings to spill from me.
Staring into her eyes, I know I have to do better, be better, for her. And I want it, I want that more than anything else in the world. I want to be worthy of her.
“?” she whispers, and the softness of her voice shoots to my balls, and my cock thickens in my slacks at the sound.
My mouth becomes impossibly dry as her tongue darts out over her plump bottom lip. That fucking lipstick she doesn’t need marring her precious lips when they’re edible enough without it has my fists pumping beside me.
Who the fuck did she paint them for?
I long to wrap her thick brown waves around my fist and haul her back so I can devour her neck. Her hair flows down to her ass, accentuated in a little red dress molded to her body like a second skin, forcing a lump to clog in my throat.
Jesus, she’s stunning.
“. Are you okay?” Her concerned tone filters through my senses, and I squeeze my eyes shut at the intense pain lancing through my chest at her beauty.
I imagine peeling her dress from her, sliding it down her hips along with her panties, then I’d bend her over the vanity and gag her with her panties while I fuck her cunt ruthlessly.
“?”
My eyes snap open, and she stares back at me. Those emerald orbs that haunt my dreams, scanning my reflection.
“Are you okay?” she repeats.
Okay?
I choke on a sardonic laugh.
How the fuck can I be okay? I’m standing in her bedroom with a raging hard-on. Every part of my body screams to take her, to make her mine. Yet my mind tells me not to do it.
There will be no going back.
I’m not good enough for her.
My best friend would hate me.
She would throw her life away to be with me. I know she would, and ultimately, she would hate me for giving in to this intense craving I have for her.
But in this moment, as she stares back at me with equal longing in her eyes, all my inhibitions slip away, and I simply don’t care.
I want her.