#until dawn

Not in a hygienic way. No, he showers—probably too often, given how his skin always looks stretched tight over his cheekbones, shiny and a little raw, like he scrubs himself bloody each morning to peel away whatever filth clings to him from the night before.

And his hair, while thick and styled with cheap gel that flakes off onto his shoulders, still somehow reeks of expensive cologne. The type that burns your nostrils with its sharp, synthetic sweetness, clashing horribly with the stale tang of sweat that seeps through by midday.

No, gross in the way he looks at you.

His gaze is… devouring. 

Like he’s trying to imagine exactly what you’d look like stripped bare, mouth parted, eyes wet—like he’s undressing you in his mind and finding ways to ruin you all at once.

His eyes dart over your body too fast, greedy, like he doesn’t want anyone else to notice what he’s doing but he also can’t control it. 

And when your eyes accidentally meet, he always smirks. That horrible, twitchy smirk that never reaches his eyes, his tongue running across his bottom lip as if tasting something only he can see.

Your friends noticed it immediately.

The first time he stumbled over to your group at a house party, a few beers deep, pupils blown wide and glassy, that grin split his face so wide it almost looked painful.

“Ladies,” he slurred, his voice thick with booze and something else, something sticky and leering, “what’s going on over here, huh? Talking about me?”

“Fuck off.” You snapped at him immediately.

You remember your immediate eye roll, how it only seemed to spur him on. His eyes snapped to you, laser-focused, pupils twitching like he couldn’t keep them still.

He let out a short, barking laugh, leaning closer, his free hand coming up to clumsily fix his fringe before it fell right back into his eyes.

“Or are we talking about you tonight?” he drawled, swaying forward so close you could smell the stale beer and cheap cologne mixing with his sweat. “God, you look—fuck— you know you look good, right? You’re like… fuckin’ dangerous.” He hiccuped, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, eyes never leaving yours. “You’re… Sam’s little pal, yeah? Bet she doesn’t even know what to do with you.”

You scoffed, looking away, refusing to give him the reaction he wanted. “Fuck. Off.”

But he didn’t. His gaze dropped to your chest, lingering there like he was etching every inch into memory, then dragged lower with a grossly audible sigh. He licked his lips, slow and deliberate, before leaning in, his mouth brushing your ear as he whispered, voice trembling with cocky desperation, “Bet you taste even better than you look, huh? Fuck… I’d ruin you.”

Then, like nothing happened, he snapped upright with that manic, boyish grin plastered back onto his face, eyes flicking around the group, manic energy radiating off him. “Anyway—who’s getting me another drink? I’m fuckin’ parched.”

He watched your reaction with a flicker of dark amusement, eyes narrowing slightly as his grin widened. It was like he was cataloguing every tiny twitch of disgust on your face, savouring it. 

But what really caught his attention—what made his pupils darken with something greedy and almost triumphant—was how you didn’t tell him to fuck off this time.

You just stood there, glaring, lips pressed tight, shoulders tense. 

And he liked that. He liked it way too much.

Chris had to drag him away by the elbow, muttering an apology under his breath as Josh twisted to keep staring at you, his eyes unfocused but hungry, like a stray dog seeing scraps.

As soon as he left, your friends circled up, wide-eyed.

 “Oh my god, what was that?” one asked, laughing nervously. “What’d he say to you?”

“Where do men get the audacity?” another chimed in, rolling her eyes. “He’s so gross.” 

Then they turned to you, eyebrows raised. “Did you see the way he was looking at you? Like he wanted to… I don’t even know. Eat you alive or something.” 

“Literally. He gives me the creeps,” one friend shuddered, sipping her drink. “Did you hear what he said to Anna last week? Told her she ‘looked like a pornstar from the nineties, in a hot way’. Who even says that?” 

“Ugh, remember when he asked Sarah if her boobs were real? At brunch? In front of everyone? He’s disgusting. You'd think all that money, he'd have some manners.” 

You just laughed along with them, cheeks burning, ignoring the way your stomach twisted at the thought of him wanting to ‘eat you alive’. 

Another time you’d mentioned to Sam offhand that you were cramping badly, and Josh, overhearing from across the kitchen, piped up: “That’s kinda hot though. Like… primal or some shit.”

You’d gagged into your cereal bowl.

Men like him have always existed.

Too cocky for their own good, a little unhinged, but never quite dangerous enough for anyone to actually cut them off. The type who toes the line with crude jokes and lingering touches, only to grin and apologise with that manic glint in his eyes, and somehow everyone just lets it slide. 

He’s funny, or at least loud enough to pass for it.

Charismatic in that slippery, suffocating way that keeps him invited to every party you go to, keeps him perched at the edge of every group dinner, leaning back with his arms spread across the seat like he owns the world. 

But it’s the way he looks at you that makes your skin crawl.

His gaze turns dark when it lands on you—hungry, feverish, like he wants to peel you open and crawl inside, nestle there and never leave. Like he wants to keep you all to himself, hidden away beneath his fingernails and teeth. 

And he never tries to hide it.

Not at parties. Not in the warm candlelight glow of a crowded dinner table. Not when you’re laughing with friends and feel his stare burn across your throat like a brand. 

You always catch it. 

The way his eyes slid over your body like oil, lingering a bit too long on your chest, your thighs, lips parted just slightly like he was already picturing what they’d feel like wrapped around him. 

He’s touchy, too.

Always brushing past you when there’s plenty of room, his palm hot against your lower back as you walk through a crowd. When he compliments a dress or shirt you’re wearing, he just has to know what it feels like, running his fingers over the material, dragging them across your skin beneath it if he can, even when your face scrunches up in disgust and your friends’ jaws drop at the sheer audacity of Josh.

The worst part is… you never really discourage him. You just roll your eyes, mumble a half-hearted “Stop it, Josh,” and move on. You never actually push him away when his hands settle near your midriff or drift up towards your collarbone, fingers gripping at the fabric like he wants to rip it away.

He’s just one of those guys.

He laughs too loud – breathy and obnoxious, echoing through the room.

He says things that are just a bit too sexual, even to his other female friends like Jess or Ashley, little comments that make them shift uncomfortably closer to their boyfriends, which he loves doing in front of them.

He jokes too much about wanting to roleplay or choke someone out, watching your face closely after he says it, eyes dark and mouth curled up in that stupid smirk.

He messages you at 3am, “u up? ❤️,” and when you don’t respond, he sends another. And another. 

Sometimes you wonder why he’s like that. 

His sisters seem totally normal – Hannah’s a bit naïve, sure, and Beth can be firm when she needs to be, but they’re normal. They’re just too rich for their own good. Their parents stopped caring a long time ago.

And Josh… Josh fucking loves that mountain lodge they own. He’s always talking about it, about how quiet it is up there, alone in the snow, how you could scream and no one would hear. 

He once told you, straight-faced, “You’d look so fucking hot crying. Like, properly sobbing. Bet your mascara would run all down your face.”

It wasn’t even during an argument, or after a joke, or anything that might have excused it. You’d just been sitting there on the back deck, scrolling through your phone as he smoked, the fading sun casting gold across the lake.

You hadn’t even been talking to him. You’d just sighed quietly to yourself at some sad video, blinking fast to keep your eyes from watering.

Josh exhaled a cloud of smoke, eyes locked on your face, studying every little twitch of your expression. Then he said it. Calm. Flat. Like an observation about the weather.

You looked up sharply, heart stuttering in your chest. “What the fuck is wrong with you?” you whispered, disgust curling thick and heavy in your throat.

He just smirked wider, tongue flicking across his bottom lip as his gaze flicked down your face, lingering at your mouth. “Nothing,” he said softly, almost to himself. “Absolutely nothing at all.”

Then he stubbed out his cigarette, stood up, and walked back inside, leaving you there with your pulse pounding in your temples, your skin crawling so violently it felt like you might scratch it all off just to be clean again.

He’s pathetic. He’s gross. Weird. Perverted.

Which is exactly why nobody could know.

It happened at the lodge, of course. Where else would it happen? 

Just a winter getaway, late January. You’d come up with Sam, your duffel bag stuffed with sweaters and thick socks, expecting nothing more than hot cocoa, card games, and maybe a freezing dip in the lake for bragging rights. 

Josh called while you were halfway up the mountain road, the icy trees blurring past outside. The moment he heard your voice crackling through the car speakers, you swear he nearly came right then and there. 

“Fuck, yeah. Fuck. Yeah.” His breathing was ragged over the line, like he’d been running or… something else. “You’re gonna have the time of your life, babe, I swear. I’ve told you about how q—” 

“—I know, Josh. It’s quiet. Shut up now,” you snapped, cutting him off before his filthy mouth could say something else that would make Sam roll his eyes in disgust.

Too late, she was gagging at the ‘babe’ of it all.

Josh just laughed. That low, manic, bubbling laugh that always made your stomach twist, equal parts revulsion and dread. He was never put off by your impatience.

If anything, it only spurred him on. 

“God, you’re such a little bitch sometimes,” he chuckled, voice dropping low, filthy, almost fond. “Gonna be a fun weekend.”

“Watch it, Josh,” Sam remarked. “Seriously, she’s my friend, stop acting all… you.”

“She doesn’t mind, do you babe?”

“Fuck off,” Is all you say.

It started earlier that night.

You’re rummaging through your duffel bag looking for clean socks when you notice your folded underwear sitting a little off from how you packed them. Your stomach clenches cold. The lace is twisted around itself in a way you know you didn’t leave it. Wrinkled. Handled.

You frown, fingers brushing over the cotton, then glance up to see Josh standing in the doorway.

Watching.

He smiles slowly, eyes flicking down to your open bag before meeting yours again. His gaze is glassy, hungry, lips parted just slightly like he’s been panting. You notice then the way his hand flexes at his side, fingers twitching like they’re aching to touch.

“Need any help unpacking?” he asks, voice syrupy sweet, but there’s a rasp to it, raw and shaky, like he’s been breathing heavy for a while.

Your skin crawls. “No,” you snap, shoving the bag closed, feeling your cheeks burn with disgust and something shameful under his stare.

But as you walk past him, his arm brushes yours. He leans in close enough that his breath fans hot over your ear, and under his deodorant and sweat you catch a faint, bitter tang that makes your stomach flip—like he’s been working himself up alone in the dark.

“Cute panties,” he whispers, so low you’re not sure you heard it right. But then he laughs, a quiet, broken little chuckle, and you know.

You push past him, heart hammering, bile rising in your throat. But even as you leave, you can feel it. His stupid fucking staring.

The cabin was warm and golden with firelight, flickering shadows making everyone look softer, prettier, a little drunker than they really were. You’d spent most of dinner ignoring Josh’s gaze burning into your side profile as you laughed at Mike’s stupid impressions. You felt it – every time you tilted your head back, his eyes dragged down your throat, your chest, your arms. Devouring. 

He barely spoke through dinner. Just watched. Picking at his food with trembling fingers, flicking glances around the table to keep up the pretence of normalcy, then dragging them back to you like gravity.

Afterwards, he and Chris set up beer pong, coaxing everyone to join in with drunken cheers and clumsy bravado.

“You play?” Josh asks as he gets one in.

You stood beside the table, sipping on a beer yourself. “Not really. Can’t aim for shit.”

“I’ll teach you. C’mon, it’s easy,” He insists, waving you to come closer.

You sigh, feeling the glances of Emily and Jess, both of whom have mightily advised you to stay away from Josh.

“He’s a sweet guy, like, we wouldn’t be friends with him if he was a total dick, right? But like, you can do so much better, girl.”

Despite it, you agree. He smiles as you step closer, taking the ping pong ball out of his hand.

“What? I just bounce it right in?”

“Yeah. Yeah. You just- alright, maybe pick a cup you wanna get it in.”

“Fine. Um. Third row from the front, second from the left.” 

“Good girl,” he says without thinking, voice low and hoarse. Your stomach clenches at that, unbidden. 

You glance up sharply, but he’s already moving to stand behind you, big clammy hands coming to rest on your hips. You tense. His thumbs press circles into the fabric of your hoodie, squeezing like he’s trying to memorise the shape of your bones beneath it.

“Okay, okay, relax,” he murmurs near your ear, breath hot and beer-sour. “Just… line it up. You wanna flick it, not throw it.” 

You can feel everyone’s eyes on you – Mike grinning drunkenly, Jess smirking, Emily rolling her eyes like she’s already written this scene off as pathetic.

But Josh doesn’t care, and maybe you don’t either. His entire body is pressed against yours now, his chest firm against your back. 

His fingers slide down from your hips to rest lightly on your thighs, the touch far too intimate for a party game. You feel him press in a little harder, the swell of his crotch flush against your ass, and you stiffen instinctively. 

“Josh,” you hiss under your breath, a light reprimand, but he just laughs quietly, his grip tightening like iron shackles. 

“Shh, babe, I’m just helping you aim,” he murmurs, voice dripping with fake innocence, though you can feel the twitch of his grin against your ear. “C’mon, focus for me.” 

You swallow hard, forcing yourself to raise your arm, wrist flicking as you send the ball flying in a clumsy arc. It hits the rim of your chosen cup and bounces out, clattering across the table. 

“Ah, so close,” Josh breathes, his fingers digging bruises into your thighs as he pulls you tighter against him. You feel him through the thin fabric of your leggings, and your cheeks burn with humiliation. 

He finally steps back, hands sliding back up to your waist, giving it a squeeze that makes you wriggle under him. “Good try. Keep going.”

You wriggle under the touch, shoving him off with your hip as best you can, glaring over your shoulder. But he’s already stepped back, watching you with that heavy-lidded stare, pupils blown wide, tongue flicking across his bottom lip like he’s tasting the moment.

You can’t believe you listen to him.

You do. You try again, shaking out your wrist, and he stays back this time, arms crossed over his chest. His hoodie sleeves are pushed up to his elbows, veins snaking down his forearms, hands twitching like he’s resisting the urge to touch you again. 

“Aim with your wrist, not your hand,” he mentions lazily, like it’s a casual afterthought, like he didn’t just grind himself against you in front of half your friends. 

“Fuck off,” you remind him flatly, eyes locked on the cup. But you take the advice anyway.

You flick your wrist, the ball arcs neatly, and lands directly in the cup you’d chosen before. 

Beer sloshes over the rim. Chris and Mike whoop, Ashley cheers, Emily claps sarcastically. 

“Babies first beer pong,” Jess teases, raising her cup to her lips. 

You smile despite yourself, feeling a flicker of pride, looking down at the ping pong table and shaking your head. Then you glance at Josh, expecting a cocky comment, and find him staring at you with an expression so intense it makes your stomach clench. 

You give him a small, reluctant smile, just a twitch of your lips. “Thanks, coach,” you mutter, sipping your beer to hide the flush in your cheeks. Then you add under your breath, just loud enough for him to hear: “Never touch me again, though.” 

He just grins at that, wide and twitchy and obscene, raising both hands like he’s surrendering to the cops. “Don’t know what you’re talkin’ about,” he says, voice thick with mock innocence. 

You roll your eyes, but there’s heat rising in your chest that you try to shove down, turning away before you can think too much about it. As you tuck a strand of hair behind your ear, you catch Emily watching you from across the table, eyebrows raised, an amused, questioning smile curling at the corner of her mouth.

Your smirk fades instantly. You duck your head, focusing hard on your beer, willing the flush on your cheeks to cool down before anyone else notices.

You’ve always heard nothing good happens past midnight.

You’d have to agree.

You slept too much on the drive over, and now you’re wide awake, curled up on the loveseat as the fire burns low, dying phone in hand. Chris had nearly lit himself on fire trying to get the thing started earlier, and everyone had laughed until their ribs ached.

Now it’s quiet. Everyone else has drifted off to bed, sprawled out in spare rooms and on couches, bodies heavy with beer and whiskey and shots of something sweet Josh found in the back of the liquor cabinet.

You sobered up a while ago, nursing a wine, staring into the embers as they collapsed in on themselves. 

Almost everyone had gone to bed. 

You hear the footsteps before you see him. Heavy, uneven, like he’s dragging his feet across the polished wood floors just to let you know he’s coming. You don’t bother turning. You already know. 

Josh stumbles in from the kitchen, hoodie unzipped, sweatpants hanging low on his hips, hair sticking up in greasy tufts like he’s been tugging at it all night. Like he’s been pacing and thinking and pacing some more. 

When he sees you, his whole face changes. That stupid grin unfurls across his lips, slow and twitchy, his eyes going soft and dark all at once. Hungry. Lazy. Like he’s just come home to something warm and waiting.

“Couldn’t sleep?” he wonders. 

You don’t look up from your phone. “Nope.” 

He chuckles under his breath, moving closer, the floor creaking under his weight. “Yeah. Me neither.” 

He exhales a shaky sigh, like the sight of you actually calms him, shoulders dropping as he steps around the couch to stand in front of you. The shadows from the fire flicker across his face, catching on the sharp plane of his cheekbones, the wet gleam of his lips. He smells like sweat and cologne and stale beer. Overpowering. Cloying. 

For a moment he just… looks at you, stood between the couch and fireplace. Like he’s drinking in the sight, pupils blown wide, tongue darting out to wet his lips. You flick your gaze up at him, and his breath catches, chest hitching like you just punched the air out of his lungs. 

“Stop staring at me like that,” you mutter, voice flat, phone now of no interest to you.

He raises his hands again, surrendering. “Like what?”

“Josh…” You sigh, tired, rubbing at your eyes with the heel of your palm. The fire crackles behind him, shadows dancing across his sharp cheeks, making him look almost skeletal. Gaunt. Haunted.

Because he knows. He knows exactly how he looks at you. Everybody does. He finally drops it.

“Oh, come on,” he scoffs, but there’s no real bite behind it. His words are low, slurred at the edges, eyes flickering over your face with something like pleading. “I’m— I’m nothin’ but a gentleman to you, aren’t I?” His brows twitch together, mouth twisting into something sour. “I… I keep my distance. I deal with your attitude, don’t I?” He chuckles, but it’s hollow, wet at the end like he’s swallowing back something desperate.

You stare at him, brows drawn tight. He’s rambling, voice dropping to a whisper. 

“Can’t I just— can’t I just have one thing?”

You blame the wine for how you don’t stop him as he takes a slow step closer, like you’re his prey. Except he just watches.

“Is that alright with you?” He mumbles. “If you’re not… gonna give me what I want.”

You can’t help it. “What do you want?”

He scoffs a dry laugh at that and points at you like you’ve just told a hilarious joke. “The playing dumb thing is cute. Real cute, you know?” He chuckles to himself.

God, if your friends knew you were even entertaining this.

A beat of quiet goes by till he takes a seat in the empty spot next to you. He spreads his legs wide, knee bumping against yours. You curl more into yourself, tucking your foot up onto the seat, hoodie sleeves pulled over your hands as you inhale sharply, staring into the fire with him.

Yeah. He’s fucking weird.

And just… crude, and touchy.

But maybe you’re touch-starved. Maybe your ex was too nice. Maybe you’re bored. But he wants you. He’s never not shown that. Not like the others, who flirt when it’s convenient, whose eyes flick away the moment they’re bored of the chase.

He looks at you like he’s starving. Like he’d gnaw his own arm off if it meant getting to touch you for a second. 

And maybe that’s why you ask him— 

“Why do you like me?” you whisper, voice almost lost beneath the crackle of the fire. You stare down at your lap, fingers fidgeting with the fraying ends of your sleeves. 

Josh almost doesn’t hear it. His glazed eyes remain fixed on the fire, flickering orange reflected in his blown pupils. For a second, you think he’s not going to answer. But then he exhales, a shaky sound that rattles his chest. 

“You’re hot,” he says flatly. Like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. 

You scoff, rolling your eyes, but before you can cut him off he keeps going, words tumbling out clumsy and unfiltered. 

“You’re… nice. Not always to me, n’ all, but that’s usually ‘cause I’ve got it comin’,” he chuckles, rubbing a hand over his mouth like he’s trying to hide his smile. “But I see you with Sam. With the others. You… I dunno. You care about stuff. About people. You’re funny. And you’re just so fuckin’ sexy, you know?” 

He lets out a low, breathy laugh, shaking his head slightly. It sounds almost disbelieving, like he can’t believe he’s saying this and you’re actually listening. His knee nudges yours again, firmer this time, like he can’t help himself. 

“I mean—fuck—you’re sittin’ here lookin’ like that, and you’re talkin’ to me, and… shit, dude,” he mumbles, voice going quiet at the end. His gaze finally drags over to you, eyes half-lidded and heavy with exhaustion and liquor and that same disgusting, obsessive hunger. “It’s like… I dunno. You make me fuckin’ crazy.” 

Your chest tightens, stomach twisting uncomfortably. It’s pathetic.

He’s pathetic.

But there’s a part of you—some small, rotting part buried deep in your chest—that feels something warm curl through your ribs at his words. At least he wants you. At least he’s obsessed. And that’s worth something. Even if he’s gross.

Which is exactly why you lean in without thinking, pressing your lips against his cheek. Your cheap red gloss leaves a faint smear on his sharp bone.

You watch him twitch at the contact, squirming under your gaze when you pull back, still close, your body fully angled towards him now. 

He turns his head to look at you, eyes wide, confused, silent. 

Good. He should shut up more often, you think. 

Before he can say anything, you lean in again.

This time, your lips press against his. Soft at first – he goes completely still, frozen in shock, before his mouth starts to move against yours, clumsy and desperate. You can feel how plush his lips are, how they part under yours like he’s starving for it. 

You kiss him deeper for just a second, tasting stale beer and mint gum, before pulling away abruptly, leaving him panting.

He stares at you like you’ve just handed him the meaning of life on a silver platter. Like he might genuinely explode if you touch him again. 

“You can’t tell anyone,” you murmur, voice low and firm. 

He nods so fast it’s pathetic. 

“Answer me,” you demand, eyes narrowing. 

“I-I won’t tell anyone,” he blurts out, voice breaking at the edges. 

“You promise?” Your hand slides up to cup his jaw, thumb brushing over the faint stubble there, almost tender. 

His eyes flutter half-shut, lips parting like he’s about to say something worshipful. But he hesitates. “Well–” 

You fist your fingers into his hair and yank, hard enough to make him gasp, his head tipping back, mouth falling open in a silent moan. “Promise me,” you repeat, your voice like steel. 

He’s breathing heavy now, chest rising and falling fast, but a shaky smile curls at the edge of his lips. “Yes, ma’am,” he breathes out, half joking, half ruined already.

You don’t remember how his mouth ended up on yours, chasing it like you would vanish into thin air. How his fingers found their way under your sweater, rough and trembling against the bare skin of your waist. How you climbed onto his lap, straddling him without thinking, knees digging into the ratty loveseat cushions on either side of his thighs. 

His hands clutched at your hips like he was scared you’d slip away. His touch was desperate – not tender, not considerate – just greedy, fingers digging in so tight you knew you’d bruise. You felt his cock straining against his sweats beneath you already, pathetic, hard just from a couple of kisses. 

“Fuck…” he whimpered into your mouth, his voice breaking pathetically as his tongue licked at your bottom lip, sloppy and uncoordinated. “Fuck, fuck… you’re… you’re so fucking hot, oh my god…” 

You pulled back slightly, just enough to watch his face. His eyes were half-lidded, pupils blown wide, chest heaving like he’d run a marathon. Sweat beaded along his hairline despite the chill in the lounge.

He looked… kind of beautiful, in a filthy, trembling way. Like something that shouldn’t exist, and yet there it was, all yours.

You remember his little noises – those quiet, broken whimpers into your mouth – and the way he said your name like it was the only word he knew. 

“You’re a fucking dick,” You muttered softly, but your hips rolled down against him anyway, feeling the way he twitched beneath you, how his breath hitched in his throat. 

His hands slid up under your hoodie, rough palms skating over your ribs, thumbs brushing the underside of your bra. He looked like he might start crying from how overwhelmed he was, lips pink and swollen, gloss smeared across his mouth and chin. 

“I’ve dreamt about this,” he whispered, his voice wrecked. “You can call me whatever you want. Just… please… please keep going.” 

Pathetic. Absolutely pathetic. 

You leaned in again, your mouth ghosting over his ear. “You’re such a fucking loser, Josh,” you whispered, your tongue darting out to lick the shell of his ear. 

He shivered violently beneath you, hips jerking up against yours involuntarily. “Yeah…” he breathed out, his hands sliding down to grip your ass, squeezing like he was trying to memorise the shape of it. “I don’t care… don’t fucking care…” 

You kissed him again, harder this time, biting down on his bottom lip until he let out a strangled groan into your mouth. His hips were grinding up into you now, desperate little thrusts that made your stomach twist with disgust and reluctant heat. 

Because at least he wanted you. At least he was obsessed. 

At least when his eyes rolled back and his hands shook against your skin, it was because of you. Only you. 

God, you’re pathetic.

His hands slip out from under your shirt, fumbling down to grab at your ass, squeezing rough and greedy as you kiss him harder.

You move his hand lower, guiding it yourself until his fingertips brush the waistband of your sleep shorts. He lets out a ragged little gasp at the contact, the sound muffled by your mouth, and you can feel him twitch beneath you, pathetic. 

You drag his hand under the thin cotton, down into your panties. He hesitates for half a second, almost like he’s overwhelmed, before his fingers slip lower and finally swipe through your folds. 

You break the kiss with a shaky inhale, your forehead dropping to rest against his as you feel him touch your core, wet and hot against his trembling fingers. His breath hitches, chest rising sharply under yours, and his eyes flutter between your flushed face and the sight of his hand buried under your shorts. 

“Fuck… you’re…” he starts, voice hoarse with disbelief as he feels just how wet you are. 

“Shut up,” you mutter quickly, cheeks burning with embarrassment. 

He just nods, swallowing hard, but his mouth won’t stay shut for long. “I’ve… I’ve thought about this for so fucking long, you know,” he rambles, his voice cracking at the edges with desperation. “I… fuck, I can’t believe this is real…”

You’re about to tell him to stop talking again, but then his thumb brushes your clit, light and tentative. Your hips jolt forward involuntarily, a moan slipping from your parted lips. His eyes flick back to your face, pupils blown wide, drinking in the way you scrunch your eyes shut and bite down on your bottom lip.

His thumb starts circling your clit, slow at first, as his fingers dip lower, teasing at your entrance but never pushing in. 

“I jack off to you all the time,” he breathes out, his voice low and trembling. “In the shower. In bed. Fuckin’— even in the bathroom at work sometimes… You’re like… you’re a fucking dream, you know that?” 

You let out a shaky exhale, pressing your face into his shoulder to muffle your noises when he finally sinks a finger inside you, crooking it experimentally. It’s rough and clumsy, nothing like how you touch yourself, but his fingers are thicker, reaching deeper, the stretch making your thighs quiver around his hips. 

He chuckles low in his chest, dark and filthy. “I’ve thought… fuck… thought about putting you in so many different positions,” he murmurs, curling his finger inside you just right, making your breath stutter. “Thought about your mouth around my dick. Thought about what kind of noises you’d make when I fuck you. Bet you sound so pretty, don’t you?” 

He thrusts the single finger slowly, and it’s not enough. Not even close. You reach back, grabbing his wrist, guiding his movements. “Lower,” you pant out, voice strained, “and… another.” 

His eyes roll back at your words, a guttural little whine escaping his throat as he obeys immediately, pressing a second finger in beside the first. You let out a choked moan, your back arching as he scissors them open, finding the spot that makes your thighs shake. 

“Fuck… fuck, look at you…” he whispers, voice shaking with reverence as he pumps his fingers deeper, thumb rubbing fast, messy circles over your clit. “So good for me… riding my fingers like that…” 

You move against him, grinding down desperately, chasing the feeling, your breath hitching with each thrust. His fingers fill you perfectly, curling just right, thumb flicking your clit faster. Your vision blurs at the edges.  “Right there, right there…” You mumble.

“I’ve thought about tying you up,” he mutters, ignoring your praise, his voice wrecked, eyes glued to your flushed face and parted lips. “Would you… would you let me do that? Hm? Tie you up, spread you open… fuck, I’d ruin you.” 

You let out a shaky breath, pretending like you’re ignoring his words, but the flush that spreads down your chest gives you away. You can’t even speak, can only nod weakly, your hips rolling faster, thighs trembling around him. 

“Fuck… fuck, that’s so hot,” he groans quietly, his fingers thrusting deeper, thumb relentless over your clit. “God… you’re gonna come for me, aren’t you? Gonna come all over my fingers… fuck, please… please, baby…”

“Shit, that’s so hot,” He exclaims quietly, watching as you ride on his fingers.

Your stomach coils tighter, heat building fast, his filthy words spurring you closer and closer as you ride his hand, desperate little whimpers muffled against his neck. His thumb is relentless over your clit, circles sloppy and fast, his two fingers thrusting deep inside you, curling up just right, stretching you open around him. 

“That’s it,” he breathes out shakily, his lips brushing your ear as his voice drops low, dark, possessive. “So good for me… making those pretty little noises… can’t let anyone hear, can you?” 

You shake your head, squeezing your eyes shut as the coil in your stomach snaps tight. Your body clenches around his fingers, a broken sob tearing out of your throat despite how you bite down on his shoulder to muffle it.

The orgasm rips through you, hot and fast, your thighs trembling violently around his hips as you cum hard on his fingers, grinding down desperately as if you could drag out every last wave. 

“That’s it… good fucking girl,” he whispers raggedly, his breath shaking against your cheek as he keeps thrusting his fingers, slower now, helping you ride it out. 

You pant into his neck, your forehead pressed to the sweaty skin there, your breath coming in short, sharp gasps. Your whole body feels loose, trembling with aftershocks, but you’re hyper-aware of the way his cock is straining hard against his sweatpants beneath you, pressed snug between your soaked core and his stomach. 

Even through the fabric you can feel how hot and hard he is, twitching with every tiny shift of your hips. He lets out a strangled little whine when your hips shift involuntarily, rutting up against you with desperate need.

His hands grip at your ass, holding you tight against him, grinding up into your clothed crotch shamelessly as he pants into your hair. 

“Please…” he whimpers, his voice wrecked, needy and pathetic. “Please… need you so bad… please let me…” 

His forehead drops to your shoulder, lips parted against your skin as he ruts up against you again, cock throbbing hard under his sweats, leaving a wet patch where precum soaks through. His hands tighten on your hips, fingers digging into your flesh like he’s scared you’ll pull away. 

You can feel his chest heaving against yours, his whole body trembling with restraint as he keeps himself from flipping you over and taking what he wants.

Because he knows – he knows he has to wait for you to give it to him. 

And maybe that’s what makes this feel so fucking good. Knowing how desperate he is. How completely and utterly at your mercy he is right now, shaking beneath you like a dog begging for scraps.

Without warning, you spit quickly onto your palm, the wet heat slicking your skin. Your hand slides between you both, bold and unhesitating, slipping beneath the waistband of his sweatpants, then under his boxers, curling around the length of his cock. 

His mouth falls open, a ragged breath catching in his throat before it bursts into a long, desperate groan—too loud, too raw. You clamp your other hand swiftly over his mouth, fingers pressing firmly against his cheek. 

“Be quiet,” you hiss, voice low and sharp. “Or I’ll fucking leave you here.” 

You see the flicker of genuine horror cross his face at the thought, eyes wide and glassy. His body tenses, trembling under your touch. He nods quickly, swallowing hard behind your hand. 

Still, the soft, pitiful whimpers press against your palm as his lips press and bite lightly, nearly grazing your skin. You grip him tighter, thumb stroking up and down, moving slow and deliberate, letting him drown in the feeling while you hold the reins.

Your hand moves carefully, almost possessive—like you’re trying to tame something wild and broken beneath your touch. His body shudders against you, tense but craving, the heat radiating through the thin fabric of his sweats.

He’s barely holding himself together, that desperate, hungry edge never leaving his eyes, even though his lips stay pressed beneath your palm, muffling his ragged breaths and quiet whines. 

You can feel the frantic pulse beneath your fingers, the slick heat that speaks of him straining on the edge. You don’t want to drag this out any longer than it has to.

You want one thing and he’s already got you there once, which is already more than you expected. 

You just keep moving your hand, slow and steady, fingers tracing the line between pleasure and pain, between control and surrender. 

Suddenly, you pull your hands away, leaving him trembling and exposed beneath your touch. His cock presses hard against his stomach, eyes wide and glassy as he watches you, dumbfounded. 

Without hesitation, you shimmy down your shorts and panties, the fabric slipping to the floor with a soft thud. His breath hitches, a string of low, shocked curses escaping his lips like he can’t quite believe this is really happening. 

His hand rises hesitantly, replacing yours, fingers wrapping around his own aching length, moving in a slow, desperate rhythm as his gaze stays locked on you. 

“Can you, um—” He gestures awkwardly toward your hoodie, hesitation thick in his voice. 

You freeze, a flicker of doubt flashing through your mind. Stripped bare before him, while he remains warm and clothed, the imbalance of power sharp as ever. But his eyes, burning with that twisted mixture of hunger and awe, drag you forward. 

With a reluctant breath, you tug off the hoodie, the cool air prickling your skin as you settle back onto his lap, careful to keep just enough distance to remind him this isn’t softness or tenderness—it’s control. 

He watches, hand moving faster now, slick with sweat, as you unclip your bra—revealing curves that have him practically swallowing his own breath. 

Your heart hammers loud in the stillness. Anyone could walk in at any moment. You pray the whiskey haze keeps the others oblivious, safe behind closed doors and heavy lids. 

“Holy shit,” he rasps, voice thick with disbelief and need. 

One hand never leaving his cock, the other tentatively reaching for your bare tits, fingers exploring, squeezing like he’s trying to memorise every inch. You shiver under the weight of his touch—equal parts revulsion and reluctant heat. 

“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” he whimpers into your neck, voice ragged and wet. “You’re so fucking—god, you’re so warm, please, please let me—” 

You barely hear him. Your brain is cotton-wool fuzz, heat coiling tight in your stomach as you grip his hair, forcing him to look at you. His eyes roll back slightly, lids fluttering, mouth falling open in a silent moan as his hips jerk up again, desperate for friction, moving his hands to your waist, holding your back towards him.

“You’re pathetic.” you mutter, your voice flat, empty.

“Yeah,” he breathes, nodding into your grip, his fingers digging bruises into your hips.

You watch him for a second. Watch the way his chest heaves with each ragged breath, sweat dripping down his temples, gloss smeared across his swollen lips. You could almost laugh. This is Josh Washington. Rich kid. The Black Sheep, even in his own friend group. Reduced to a whining, trembling mess beneath you. 

You reach between your bodies, wrapping your fingers around his cock again. He sobs at the touch, forehead thunking forward against your collarbone. “Please, please,” he whispers, voice shaking so hard it cracks. “I need it, I need you, I need—” 

“Shhh,” you say softly, cutting him off. 

Your thumb brushes over the flushed head, smearing the precum down his shaft as his thighs twitch under you. You guide him to your entrance, sinking down slowly. The stretch burns and he’s not even all the way in, but the way he chokes on his moan makes the discomfort worth it. 

His hands fly to your waist, gripping hard enough to leave fingerprints. “Fuck, oh fuck, oh my god,” he gasps, eyes wide and shining in the dim firelight. “You feel—fuck—better than I ever imagined.” 

You roll your hips experimentally, feeling him twitch inside you. He’s thick, not huge, but big enough to make your eyes flutter shut as he fills you completely. 

“God, please,” he whines, thrusting up helplessly. “Let me, let me fuck you, please, I need to—” 

You slap your hand over his mouth again, silencing his desperate noises as you start to move. The couch creaks beneath you with every bounce, the springs whining under your combined weight. “Shut up, for fucks sake,” you hiss. “You want everyone to wake up and see what a pathetic little perv you are?” You spit. “Hearing about how you touch yourself to me, how you’re a fucking weirdo, going through my underwear, tellin' me how you wanna see me crying... making all those stupid, stupid jokes?”

He moans against your palm, eyes rolling back, fingers digging into your flesh like he’s holding on for dear life. His hips jerk up into yours in sloppy, uncoordinated thrusts, chasing the tight heat of your cunt like an animal. 

Tears are brimming in his eyes now, lashes wet and clumped together as he looks up at you like you’re the fucking messiah. 

“Shit. Shit. Fuck. I’m- Gonna cum—” he tries to say against your hand, voice muffled and broken. 

“Already?” you mock, leaning in close so your lips brush his ear. “God, you’re fucking useless.” 

That does it. His whole body seizes under you, back arching off the loveseat as he cums with a choked, pathetic sob. Hot, wet pulses fill you as his hips keep twitching, his entire body trembling like he might collapse if you let go of him. 

You don’t stop moving. You keep grinding down onto him, ignoring his whimpers of overstimulation, using his cock for your own pleasure. His eyes roll back, mouth open in a silent moan as his hips jerk involuntarily. He hits just the right spot, and you quickly move to shove your lips against his, moaning into his mouth to quiet yourself.

“Fuck, fuck,” you mumble, your stomach tightening dangerously. The heat coils low in your gut as you ride him harder, his cock stretching you open, every inch filthy and overwhelming. “Do you have any idea—” 

Your words cut off with a sharp whimper when his hands come up to your tits, thumbs brushing over your nipples, sending electric shocks down your spine. He looks up at you like you’re god, eyes glazed, mouth falling open before he leans in, kissing across your chest, lips hot and wet as he wraps them around your nipple, sucking hard. 

“Any idea how… humiliating this is?” you pant out, voice trembling, breath coming in ragged gasps as you bounce in his lap, the slap of skin on skin echoing faintly over the crackle of the dying fire. 

He moans against your chest, tongue flicking over your nipple, drool and spit mixing with his feverish kisses. His eyes flick up to yours, pupils blown wide, glassy with tears from sheer sensory overload. He doesn’t stop. His hands squeeze your breasts tighter, thumbs brushing insistently as his hips buck up, desperate for more. 

“Have any idea how… if I was to tell anyone that I fucked—” you gasp, voice rising, heat building faster and faster, “fucking Josh Washington—” 

He groans at the sound of his name falling from your lips like that, filthy and ruined. 

“They’d think I’m a fucking weirdo,” you spit out, words dissolving into a breathy moan as he sucks your other nipple into his mouth, teeth grazing it just enough to make your hips stutter against him. “Oh—fuck, fuck, right there, fuck.” 

He stops for a moment, head falling back against the couch with a low, broken groan as your cunt clenches around him.

“Shit,” he breathes, staring down at where you’re joined, at the slick mess dripping down his cock, at the way you’re swallowing him whole with every desperate thrust. 

Your stomach tightens one final time before the coil snaps, pleasure exploding behind your eyes as you come with a shaking, choked moan. You bury your face in his shoulder, teeth sinking into the material of his hoodie, biting down hard enough to feel the sting in your jaw. 

He fucks up into you slowly, grinding his cock deep inside, moaning into your hair, his hands trembling against your ribs as he tries to hold himself back. When your orgasm fades, you lift your head slightly, breathing ragged, sweat dripping down your chest. Between your legs is a ruin of slick and cum, his cock twitching still inside you as your walls spasm around him weakly. 

Both of you look down at the mess, panting, the obscene sight making your stomach twist in disgust and reluctant satisfaction. “Fuck,” you mutter to yourself, a brief hit of clarity slicing through the haze, shame coiling around your throat like a chokehold. 

A few minutes pass in silence, only the sound of the dying fire flickering across the room, painting shadows across his ruined, flushed face. You gently pull yourself off of him, sitting besides him now, bare as ever. You lean over, grabbing your bra and hoodie.

Then, Josh chuckles. Quiet. Low. Almost thoughtful. His eyes stay fixed on yours as a twisted smile curls up at the corner of his mouth. “Maybe you are,” he says softly, voice raw, trembling with exhausted lust. 

Your brows furrow, confusion slicing through your afterglow as you reach for your bra, hooking it back around your chest with trembling fingers. “What?”

Josh just grins wider at your confusion, tongue darting out to wet his lips, eyes dark and glossy with exhaustion and something sharper. Something almost triumphant. He tucks his cock away slowly, hissing a little at the sensitivity, before leaning forward to grab your shorts from the floor, holding them out to you.

“Maybe you are a fucking weirdo,” he whispers, voice low and hoarse, “for wanting someone like me.” 

You blink, staring at him, feeling your chest tighten with something hot and shameful. He holds your shorts out closer, wiggling them teasingly between his fingers before letting out a quiet, broken laugh. 

“But… that’s kinda what makes you so fuckin’ hot, isn’t it?” he murmurs. “You could have any guy here, but… here you are.” He shakes his head, a breathy, disbelieving chuckle leaving his lips. “Here you fuckin’ are.” 

You snatch your shorts from his hand, cheeks burning. But you notice immediately—he’s handed them to you without your panties. You glance at the floor, searching, but he just raises his brows innocently, that twitchy smirk returning as he reaches down to his hoodie pocket, shoving the bunched-up cotton inside. 

“Don’t worry about those,” he mutters, voice smug, self-satisfied. “Souvenir.” 

Your mouth falls open slightly, rage and disgust flashing hot through your veins, but he just leans back against the couch, arms spreading lazily along the backrest, watching you with half-lidded eyes as you pull on your shorts, maybe accepting your fate a little too quickly. 

“This is a one-time thing,” you bite out, voice trembling with leftover adrenaline. 

Your hands feel clumsy as you tug your hoodie back over your head, trying to ignore the way his gaze devours the sight of you dressing. He tilts his head at that, studying you with a dark curiosity. 

“Yeah?” he hums, tongue flicking out again to wet his cracked lips. “You sure about that?” 

You glare at him, chest heaving, heart pounding so loud you’re surprised he can’t hear it. “Don’t push it, Josh.” 

For a second, something flickers behind his eyes—something almost genuine, raw, stripped of all his usual sleazy bravado. His lips twitch upwards into a broken smile, eyes softening as he watches you adjust your hoodie. 

“Hey,” he says softly, voice barely above a whisper. “I… I won’t tell anyone. Ever. You know that, right?” 

Your jaw clenches. You don’t answer, refusing to give him even that sliver of reassurance he craves.

You just turn away, stepping over empty beer bottles and discarded blankets as you leave him sitting there, panting quietly in the firelit dark, your panties hidden away in his pocket like a trophy. 

And as you step into the silent hallway, your chest tightens with something sickening and warm, something that makes your skin crawl—

Because you know he’s right.