Chapter 1: Introduction
The music pulsed through the floorboards, thrumming against Teal’s ribs as if the house itself were alive. He adjusted the pointy black hat perched crookedly on his head, fingers brushing the cheap plastic broomstick tucked under his arm. The skirt of his witch costume—short enough to showcase his fishnets, snug enough to make his stomach flutter—swished with every nervous step as he wove through the crowd.
His heart hammered behind his ribs, not just from the syrup-heavy punch sloshing in his red Solo cup, but from the sheer audacity of what he was doing. *Dress like a girl? At a frat party?
With his petite frame swallowed by this costume? The cheers of drunken laughter, the clink of bottles, the bassline vibrating through his bones—it was either the best idea he’d ever had or the dumbest.
Probably both.
He took another sip, wincing at the cloying sweetness. He wasn’t much of a drinker, but it was Halloween, and if he was going to pretend to be someone else for one night, he might as well lean into it. Alcohol was the social lubricant he didn’t normally need, but tonight, it felt like armor.
And then there was *him*.
Tall, broad-shouldered, moving through the crowd like he owned the place—and maybe he did. The stranger’s laugh was deep and confident, cutting through the noise effortlessly, drawing eyes like a magnet. He was all sharp angles and easy charm, his dark hair tousled just enough to suggest he’d been running his hands through it all night. A fitted black Henley stretched over his chest, the sleeves pushed up to reveal forearms dusted with dark hair and a glimpse of a fresh tattoo peeking from under the cuff.
His jeans were faded but expensive, the kind that looked deliberately worn, and his boots—well-worn leather—thudded against the sticky floor with every step.
Teal watched him from behind the safety of a cluster of laughing sorority girls, his pulse spiking when the boy turned his head, catching Teal’s gaze.
And then he *smiled*.
Not just any smile. A slow, knowing grin that lit up his sharp features, crinkling the corners of his dark eyes. Teal’s stomach dropped like he’d just missed a step on the stairs.
The smile wasn’t just for him—it was *through* him, as if he’d been singled out from across the room. A bubble of heat rose from his chest up his neck, his fingers tightening around the Solo cup until his knuckles whitened.
The guy—Zane, he’d heard someone call him earlier, though the name barely registered past the roar in his ears—started walking toward him.
Straight. Confident. Like a predator who’d already decided the meal was his.
Teal’s breath hitched. He took a hasty sip of punch, the liquid too sweet, too strong, too *everything*.
His fingers trembled as he set the cup down on a nearby windowsill, suddenly hyper-aware of the way his skirt rode up when he shifted. He shifted again—subtly—trying to tug it down without looking obvious. Of course, that just made him look more awkward.
Zane didn’t seem to notice.
Or if he did, he *liked* it.
"Hey," Zane said, stopping right in front of him, his voice low over the music. It wasn’t just a greeting—it was an invitation. A challenge. His eyes flicked down Teal’s body with slow deliberation, not once, not twice, but *three times*, like he was committing every detail to memory.
The push-up bra beneath the sheer black mesh pushed Teal’s chest forward in a way that felt obscenely forward for someone who’d never been touched like that. The bodice pinched just enough to remind him he was wearing borrowed flesh, a costume meant to tease, not reveal.
Zane’s lips curled at the corners, a half-smile that promised mischief and more.
“Oh, you’re *the* hottest witch here,” he said, voice rich with amusement and something darker, something that made Teal’s skin prickle. “I’ve been looking for someone to dance with all night.”
Before Teal could respond—before he could even process—Zane’s hand closed around his wrist.
Not roughly, but with the kind of surety that made resistance feel pointless. His fingers were warm, calloused from years of gripping hockey sticks or God-knows-what-else, and they sent a jolt up Teal’s arm that made his breath catch.
“Come on,” Zane said, grinning as he tugged Teal forward, his voice cutting through the bassline like it was nothing. “Let’s get you moving before your legs fall asleep.”
Teal stumbled after him, heart hammering so loudly he barely heard the SZA remix blaring from the speakers barely ten feet away.
The dance floor was a swirl of bodies—legs kicking, arms swinging, hips rolling in time with the beat—each movement sharp and uninhibited. The air smelled like spilled beer and sweat, the floor sticky under his borrowed heels. He tried to match their rhythm, but his limbs felt like they belonged to someone else, too stiff, too cautious, too *aware* of the way Zane’s grip never loosened on his wrist. It wasn’t bruising. It wasn’t threatening. It was just… *there*. A steady, possessive warmth that anchored him in the chaos.
Every step Zane took forward, Teal was pulled along behind him, their bodies narrowing the distance between them on the dance floor. The glow of the disco ball fractured into shards of violet and gold across Zane’s sharp jawline, his teeth flashing white as he caught Teal’s stunned expression.
“Relax,” Zane murmured, his breath brushing Teal’s temple when he leaned in close. “You’re overthinking it.”
Teal’s fingers trembled where they rested against Zane’s forearm—muscles flexed beneath his touch, the heat seeping through the thin fabric of Zane’s shirt. He swallowed hard, tasting the artificial cherry flavor of the punch still clinging to his tongue.
"I—I’m not," Teal stammered, his voice swallowed by the thumping bassline. The words came out higher than he intended, too breathy, too obviously a lie.
Zane just laughed, low and knowing, and pulled him closer until their bodies swayed in time. Teal’s chest brushed against Zane’s—*oh God*—and the contact sent a shudder through him, sharp and unfamiliar. The push-up bra pushed his cleavage forward more than he was used to, making the contact embarrassingly pronounced.
Zane didn’t seem to mind.
His free hand settled on the small of Teal’s back, fingers pressing just enough to guide, not quite trapping.
The touch was possessive, protective, intimate in a way that made Teal’s skin burn beneath the sheer mesh of his costume. He could feel the heat of Zane’s palm through the thin fabric, could feel the way his own hips—unbidden—started to sway in response.
Zane’s cologne wrapped around him, dark and musky with a hint of citrus beneath, something expensive and deliberately chosen. It clung to Teal’s senses, intoxicating in a way that had nothing to do with the sugary punch still fizzing in his stomach.
He tried to focus on anything else—anything—but his world had narrowed to the point where Zane’s thumb was tracing slow circles just above the waistband of his skirt, where the vinyl clinged to his waist, where every accidental brush of skin sent a jolt through him he didn’t know how to name.
“You smell amazing,” Zane murmured, his voice rough over the music. “Like cinnamon and sin.”
Teal blinked up at him, wide-eyed. “That’s… not a real cologne note.”
Zane grinned, unrepentant. “Sure it is.
You smell good too,” Teal blurted out, his voice trembling slightly as the words tumbled out before he could stop them. The admission came so fast it nearly collided with the next beat of music, his cheeks flooding with heat even as the words hung in the air between them.
Zane’s fingers twitched on the small of his back, then drifted lower, brushing the underside of Teal’s skirt before dragging down over the curve of his ass, slow and deliberate. The touch was light—barely there—but it sent a jolt through Teal’s spine, his breath hitching as his body reacted before his mind could protest. The fishnets beneath the witch costume did little to dull the sensation; if anything, the thin fabric only amplified the warmth of Zane’s palm as it settled possessively over one cheek.
Teal’s knees nearly buckled, but Zane’s grip tightened subtly, anchoring him upright.
Then, with a slow, deliberate pull, Zane drew Teal flush against his thigh, the hard muscle of his leg pressing insistently between Teal’s own. The contact was electrifying—Teal could feel the heat of Zane through the thin layers of costume, the friction of denim against nylon, the unmistakable ridge of Zane’s arousal pressing just above the crease of his hip. He swallowed hard, pulse racing, but something in him *answered*. His hips swayed instinctively, rolling in time with the throbbing beat of the music, his body humming with the kind of reckless abandon he’d never allowed himself before.
Zane’s breath hitched, a low sound barely audible over the music, his dark eyes darkening as he watched Teal move. “Fuck,” he muttered, his voice rough and hungry, the word curling into Teal’s ear like a promise.
“You’re killing me, witch.”
Teal blushed furiously, his cheeks burning beneath the heavy stage makeup. His breath hitched as he looked up at Zane, his lashes fluttering in that way they always did when he was overwhelmed—caught between mortification and fascination. The neon lights flickered above them, painting Zane’s sharp features in alternating streaks of violet and gold, his grin wicked and unapologetic.
Without another word, Zane took Teal’s hand, his touch deliberate—a contrast to the rough possession of moments ago. His fingers threaded between Teal’s, calloused and warm, guiding him with a firm but gentle pressure that made Teal’s stomach flip. Before Teal could protest or react, Zane turned him slowly, his other hand settling at the small of Teal’s back again, pulling him flush against his chest.
Teal gasped—Zane’s torso was solid, sculpted, the heat radiating through the thin fabric of his shirt—and then he arched his back, surrendering to the music as much as to Zane’s command. His witch hat tilted sideways, nearly slipping, but he didn’t care. The bassline thrummed through the floor, vibrating up his legs, into his thighs, his hips. He swayed—not because he was a dancer, but because the rhythm demanded movement, and right now, Teal was lost in the rhythm, lost in the way Zane’s cologne wrapped around him like a spell.
And then Zane moved behind him.
A shift in stance. A shift in space. The warmth of Zane’s chest pressed through the thin layers of Teal’s costume—no longer at his front, but now aligned against his back, his torso compliant, pliable, *yielding*.
Zane’s breath was hot against the shell of Teal’s ear, his grip firm yet exploratory, fingers splayed possessively over the lace trim of the witch skirt.
Teal giggled—unexpected, breathless—a sound that bubbled up from the base of his throat, bright and unfiltered. His cheeks blazed under the neon glow, but the giggle escaped anyway, infectious and real. The music pulsed around them, a bassline that thrummed in his ribs, and in that moment, drenched in the scent of Zane’s cologne and the faint tang of warm beer, he felt *light* somehow—like the weight of the costume, of the lie, of the future, had lifted just an inch.
A slow, hesitant roll of his hips—more instinct than artistry—sent his ass brushing back against Zane’s thigh. The contact sent a jolt through his core.
Zane’s hands slid up from the small of Teal’s back to grip his hips, thumbs pressing into the soft flesh beneath the witch skirt’s lace trim. Teal gasped as warm, calloused fingers tightened—no longer guiding, but *holding*. Firm. Possessive. Demanding response.
Teal’s breath hitched, his body reacting before his brain caught up. His hips rocked instinctively, rolling back against Zane’s thigh, the friction of denim and nylon sending a sharp thrill up his spine. The bassline throbbed in time with his pulse, syncing their movements into something shameless. His witch skirt rode up with every sway, baring more thigh with every backward press, the fishnets clinging to his skin like a second skin. Zane exhaled sharply against Teal’s neck, his breath hot and uneven, the sound sending a shiver down Teal’s back.
The weight of him pressed insistently against the small of Teal’s spine—hard, unmistakably rigid, *impossibly* thick beneath the tight confines of Zane’s jeans. Teal gasped as that ridge of flesh settled against the curve of his ass, not with pain, but with a jolt of sheer, stunned impossibility.
It was *bigger* than anything he’d imagined—not just in size, but in *presence*, in the way it *pressed* through denim and costume layers alike, unapologetically claiming space between them. Teal’s brain stuttered, his breath catching mid-sway. The music still pulsed around them, but suddenly it felt distant, muffled, as if the bassline had been drowned out by the roar in his own ears. His fingers trembled against Zane’s forearm where it wrapped possessively around his waist, the touch grounding him in the surreal moment.
His costume suddenly felt too thin.
Too flimsy. A frail barrier between them when the real question was why he even cared.
Teal arched forward slightly more, his breath hitching as the hard ridge of Zane’s cock pressed insistently against the thin fabric of his panties—now damp from arousal and friction. The lace and nylon offered no real resistance, not really, just a teasing layer that made the contact *shockingly* intimate. The shape was unmistakable, the heat radiating through the costume’s delicate layers like a brand. And it felt… *good*. Really, really good. Like nothing he’d ever imagined, like a pulse between his thighs he couldn’t ignore or explain.
His fingers tightened on Zane’s forearm where it still gripped his hip, not pulling away—just anchoring him to the moment, to the music, to the outrageousness of it all.
His breath hitched as the thick ridge of Zane’s cock ground insistently against his own balls through the damp lace of his panties, the friction aching and electric at once. The bassline throbbed in perfect sync with the motion, each pulse of music matched by the slow, rolling grind of Zane’s hips against him, deliberate and unrelenting. A bead of sweat trickled down Teal’s temple, then another, sliding between his makeup-streaked skin and the tight fabric of his witch hat. The heat wasn’t just from the closeness of bodies, from Zane’s cologne and beer and something primal clinging to the air between them—it was from the raw, unfiltered *truth* of what was happening. No costume could disguise this. No role could soften the way Zane’s cock pressed insistently against his own, the pressure sweet and dizzying, the rhythm impossible to ignore.
Zane pulled him upright with a firm hand on his hip, spinning Teal around until they were chest to chest again, their bodies still swaying to the music. His free hand lifted, brushing stray strands of hair from Teal’s sweaty forehead before settling possessively at the nape of his neck. The grip was gentle but insistent, tilting Teal’s head up as Zane leaned in, his lips hovering just above Teal’s ear.
“We should get some drinks, baby,” he murmured, his voice rough with promise and approval. The endearment—so casual, so casually possessive—sent a shiver down Teal’s spine. He nodded before he could think, his pulse still pounding in his throat. The noise of the party, the press of bodies, the throbbing bass—it all felt distant now, muffled by the rush of blood in his ears.
As Zane’s fingers closed around his wrist, Teal’s breath hitched, and in that instant, he noticed something he hadn’t before: Zane’s hand was *massive*. Broad palms, long fingers, a grip that wrapped clean around his entire forearm like a cuff. It wasn’t just big—it was *dominant*, the kind of hand that could hold, guide, and claim without so much as a second thought.
Zane didn’t ask. He didn’t hesitate. With a tug that sent Teal stumbling slightly behind him, he led them through the writhing mass of bodies toward the hallway, his grip firm but not cruel. The frat house hallway was dimly lit, the walls lined with jackets and abandoned sneakers, the air cooler here, less thick with sweat and spilled liquor.
Teal scurried behind Zane, his witch skirt swishing with every hurried step, the fishnets no longer a playful fantasy but a second skin that clung too tightly to sweat-damp thighs. He could feel the weight of unseen eyes from the living room—Zane’s frat brothers, lounging on faded couches or nursing beers on the staircase, their leers lingering too long on Teal’s borrowed curves, the push-up bra, the way his witch hat had slipped sideways.
None of them said a word.
They didn’t need to. The grin on one guy’s face—some burly alpha with a backward cap—said everything as he watched Zane drag Teal by the wrist into the liquor room, his eyes gleaming like polished obsidian. Another clapped Zane on the back, his laugh booming over the muffled thump of music.
“Enjoy your conquest, bro!”
Teal’s stomach twisted. The words hung in the air like a spell—*conquest*—and suddenly it wasn’t just the costume or the drinks or the swaying dance floor making his head light. It was the *possibility* of what Zane wanted. Of what he might take.
The hallway narrowed ahead, walls lined with empty bottles and a flickering overhead light that buzzed like a dying insect. Teal’s breath came shallow, his fingers gripping the broomstick for balance despite the fact that he wasn’t even using it. He could feel Zane’s presence behind him, the heat of his body pressing close, the scent of dark musk and sweat wrapping around him again.
The liquor cabinet door creaked open ahead, the rustic wooden shelves stacked with half-empty bottles of vodka, rum, and something amber that smelled like whiskey. Zane’s free hand slid from Teal’s wrist down to his hip, fingers pressing possessively into the soft flesh beneath the witch skirt, guiding him forward not with words but with pressure. Teal’s legs trembled slightly, the fishnets clinging to sweat-damp skin as he stepped over the threshold, the heavy door swinging shut behind them with a muffled *thunk*.
The liquor room was narrow, the air thick with the sharp tang of booze and the damp remnants of spilled liquid long since evaporated.
Zane’s grip on Teal’s hip didn’t loosen—if anything, it tightened, fingers pressing just firmly enough to make his breath catch. The warmth of Zane’s palm seeped through the thin fabric of the witch skirt, a brand Teal wasn’t sure he wanted erased.
Zane nudged him forward with a nudge of his knee against Teal’s thigh, guiding him toward the back of the cramped space. A single flickering overhead bulb cast long shadows across Zane’s face, making his sharp features look even more predatory in the dim light.
“You’re shaking,” Zane observed, his voice low and amused.
“Cold?”
Teal swallowed hard, his tongue darting out to wet his lips. “N-no.”
Zane laughed softly, the sound rich and knowing as he reached past him, his torso brushing Teal’s side as he grabbed a bottle of something amber from the shelf. The contact sent a jolt through Teal’s chest—his ribs, his stomach, lower still—his breath hitching as the scent of aged whiskey mixed with Zane’s musky cologne. The heat of Zane’s body lingered even after he stepped back, his presence filling the small space like a living thing.
Teal’s fingers trembled where they rested against the broomstick strapped to the small of his back.
The flickering bulb above cast Zane’s sharp features in stark relief—his dark eyes gleaming with mischief, his grin slow and knowing as he uncapped the amber bottle with a sharp *crack* of his thumbnail.
"Ever had body shots?" Zane asked, his voice rough with challenge, the bottle held aloft like a weapon—or an invitation. His gaze flicked down Teal’s body, lingering on the witch skirt’s hem where the sheer mesh clung to damp thighs. "I could help you warm up."
Teal’s breath hitched, his pulse roaring in his ears louder than the muffled bassline bleeding through the hallway walls. A body shot. On *him*. His costume was flimsy as hell—thin mesh, lace trim, fishnets barely obscuring anything important—and the last thing he needed was Zane’s mouth on his skin.
Not when it felt like fire just from a damn grip on his hip. Not when the air between them was thick enough to choke on.
“B-body shots?” Teal repeated, his voice cracking halfway through the question like a kid caught in the act.
Zane’s grin didn’t falter. He took a slow sip from the bottle—some expensive-looking whiskey judging by the way his throat worked—then wiped the back of his hand across his mouth with a smack of his lips. “Yeah. Salt. Lick. Shot. Repeat.” He tilted the bottle toward Teal, amber liquid sloshing dangerously close to the rim.
“You good with that?”
Teal’s fingers tightened around the broomstick strapped to his back, the plastic broom barely more than a prop now—dead weight in his grip. His pulse thrummed against his throat, his tongue darting out to wet his lips once, twice, a nervous habit he couldn’t seem to shake. The idea of Zane’s mouth on his skin—so close, so deliberate, so *intimate*—sent a shiver down his spine that pooled heat low in his stomach.
The whiskey bottle gleamed in Zane’s hand, amber catching the flickering bulb’s light like a taunt. Repeat.
Teal had seen it done. Not here, not at a frat party—but in movies, in memes, in porn his roommate had left open on his laptop during a late-night study session. The concept was simple. Erotic. *Dangerous.*
His throat went dry.
“Y-yeah,” Teal stammered, voice thin but firm enough to hide the tremor.
His fingers loosened around the plastic broomstick, letting it fall from his grip with a quiet *clatter* against the far wall. The prop wasn’t needed anymore—not when every touch from Zane felt like its own kind of magic.
Zane’s grin widened, teeth flashing white against the dim light. “Good girl,” he murmured, the phrase rolling off his tongue like a promise. The endearment sent a jolt through Teal’s chest, settling low in his stomach like a warm, intoxicating weight.
He blinked up at Zane, his lashes fluttering under the dim bulb’s glow, his lips parted slightly as if he’d forgotten how to breathe. The whiskey bottle still dangled between them, amber liquid catching the light, the scent sharp and promising.
Zane didn’t wait for another answer. He stepped forward, crowding Teal back against the shelves of liquor bottles, his presence overwhelming in the tight space. The back of Teal’s thighs bumped against the edge of a small rolling cart stacked with shot glasses. He gripped the edge to steady himself, the glass clinking softly in protest.
Zane set the bottle down on the shelf beside them with a deliberate *clink*, then reached into his pocket.
A small plastic shaker of salt emerged in his hand, followed by a lemon wedge gripped between his teeth. He pulled the wedge free with a wet *pop*, then held it up between them like a prop from a play. The citrus scent cut through the whiskey and cologne, sharp and bright.
Teal watched, transfixed, as Zane rolled the lemon wedge between his fingers, the juice glistening on the rind. His heart had somehow lodged itself in his throat, each pulse echoing in his ears like a drum solo. He swallowed hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing beneath the thick stage makeup.
His tongue darted out to wet his lips, leaving them glossy under the flickering light. “Where… where do you want me to put the salt?”
Zane’s grin deepened, slow and deliberate. His fingers brushed Teal’s hip, then slid down past the hem of the witch skirt—just far enough to tease the lace trim of the panties beneath before pulling back up again. The touch was teasing, exploratory, but possessive nonetheless. “Wherever you want,” he murmured, his voice rough with unspoken promise. “Or wherever I put it.”
The air between them was thick with tension, the kind that made Teal’s skin prickle and his pulse roaring in his ears.
He swallowed hard, his throat tight, his fingers clutching the edge of the rolling cart behind him for balance.
Zane’s gaze never left his face as he held the lemon wedge closer, the citrus scent sharp and bright in the dimly lit liquor room. His fingers flexed against Teal’s hip, the grip firm and unyielding, as if testing how far Teal would let him go before pushing back. His mind raced, but the thoughts were fragmented—salt on skin, slick and cool, the bite of citrus, the warmth of a mouth that might not be his.
The witch costume clung to him like a second layer of skin, the fishnets tangled with sweat and anticipation, the lace trim of the panties damp where arousal had seeped through the thin fabric. The scent of whiskey and Zane’s musky cologne wrapped around him, suffocating and intoxicating.
He could say no.
He *should* say no.
But the way Zane looked at him—like he was already undressing him with his eyes, like he knew exactly what Teal’s body was capable of when released from its own hesitance—made the word die on his tongue.
Teal exhaled softly, his breath shaky but steadying.
The weight of Zane's palm on his hip anchored him in place, even as the rest of the world seemed to spin. The flickering bulb cast long shadows that danced across Zane's sharp features, his dark eyes gleaming with something Teal couldn't name—something hungry, something *real*.
"I—" Teal started, his voice barely above a whisper. He swallowed hard, trying to find the courage to articulate what he wanted—or what he was willing to let happen. The words tangled in his throat, his mind racing with half-formed thoughts. "I've never done this before," he admitted, his fingers tightening on the edge of the cart behind him.
The confession slipped out like a secret, raw and unfiltered, and he didn’t meet Zane’s eyes as he said it. His gaze traced the curve of Zane’s jaw instead, where the shadow of stubble darkened already-textured skin.
Zane’s grip shifted infinitesimally, his thumb tracing the lace trim of Teal’s panties where it disappeared beneath the witch skirt.
"That's okay," Zane murmured, voice rough like gravel under boots. "I’ll help you remember how it works."
Teal shivered, his breath catching as Zane’s fingers dipped just beneath the hem, brushing the inner curve of his thigh.
The touch was feather-light, teasing the edge of where the fishnets ended and bare skin began—exposed, sensitive, *alive*.
It wasn’t supposed to feel this good.
Zane’s other hand lifted the lemon, silver salt shaker balanced precariously in his palm. The citrus gleamed under the flickering bulb, sharp and bright against the amber glow of the whiskey bottle still waiting on the shelf. A slow, knowing grin curled his lips as he tilted the wedge toward Teal’s collarbone.
“Lips first,” he murmured, the words a command rather than a suggestion.
The tip of Teal’s collarbone gleamed under the dim bulb’s flicker—smooth, painted, and utterly unaware of what was coming. Zane didn’t wait for permission. His mouth descended with deliberate slowness, hot breath ghosting over Teal’s skin before his lips parted, the tip of his tongue darting out to taste the ridge of bone just beneath the first hint of makeup.
The contact was *almost* chaste—almost reverent—but the warmth pooling low in Teal’s stomach told a different story. His breath hitched, fingers curling into the edge of the rolling cart behind him, knuckles whitening.
The citrus scent of the lemon wedge teased his senses before the cool, sharp tang of salt brushed against his collarbone, a stark contrast to the heat slowly radiating from Zane’s mouth. He could feel the brush of Zane’s stubble against his skin, the slight scrape of whiskers sending a shiver down his spine that pooled heat in places that had no business being this sensitive.
Zane’s lips ghosted over the salted skin, his tongue flicking out in one smooth motion—just a quick, teasing lick that erased the grainy texture in seconds. The combination of sweet citrus and salt lingered on his tongue, tangy and bright.
Zane pulled back just enough to admire the result, his dark eyes glinting with approval. The faint sheen of moisture on Teal’s collarbone caught the dim light, making the skin look almost dewy. A small, satisfied smile tugged at the corners of Zane’s mouth as he reached for the bottle on the shelf behind them.
Teal’s fingers trembled slightly where they pressed into the rolling cart, knuckles still white from gripping too tight. His breath came in shallow bursts, each exhale warm against the cool air of the liquor room. The taste of lemon and salt on his tongue felt alien, yet strangely intimate—as if Zane had marked him in a way that went beyond costumes or costumes gone wrong.
The lingering burn on his collarbone throbbed under Zane’s gaze, a small, throbbing ache that pulsed in time with the music bleeding from the hallway.
Zane’s fingers traced the edge of the silver salt shaker, the grains inside shifting with the tilt of his wrist. His thumb brushed the exposed flesh beneath Teal’s witch skirt—just a featherlight caress along the lace trim of the panties, a tease that made Teal’s thighs clench. The fabric clung to damp skin, doing little to hide the heat gathering there.
“Arms up,” Zane murmured, his voice rough and low, the command not an ask but a demand wrapped in velvet.
His fingers hovered near Teal’s waist, already sliding beneath the hem of the witch skirt, the lace trim of the panties warm against his fingertips.
Teal hesitated only a second—just long enough for his breath to hitch, for his fingers to tighten on the rolling cart behind him before he obeyed. The motion was clumsy, flustered, the kind of surrender that made his stomach flip even as it betrayed his nerves. He raised his arms, the short witch skirt riding up another inch with the movement, exposing the tops of his fishnets and the pale skin of his inner thighs.
The costume suddenly felt like too much fabric. Too much costume. Too much *pretend*.
Too many layers: the stretch of the witch skirt riding higher with each shaky breath; the push-up bra squeezing him into an unfamiliar shape; the tight fishnets clinging to sweat-damp skin; the lace trim of the panties already soaked from the friction of Zane’s thigh earlier.
All of it too flimsy. Too *false*.
Zane’s gaze darkened as Teal lifted his arms, the motion slow and uncertain, like he was surrendering not just fabric but something deeper. His hands rose, fingers twisting in the air above his head as if he didn’t know where to rest them. The broomstick clattered to the floor at his feet, forgotten.
Zane’s fingers didn’t waste time. They curled into the elastic waistband of the witch skirt, the cheap fabric bunching in his grip as he tugged it upward—inch by inch—until the hem rode above Teal’s hipbones, exposing the lace trim of the panties beneath. The fishnets shimmered in the dim light, clinging to damp skin, the mesh pattern doing little to hide the flush creeping up Teal’s thighs.
Teal’s breath hitched, a soft “oh” escaping his lips as the cool air brushed against his exposed skin. His fingers twitched in the air above his head, knuckles white where he dug them into nothing, his entire body rigid with anticipation.
The witch skirt rode higher with every uneven breath, the lace trim of the panties no longer just a trim but a taut boundary between exposure and decency—one Zane was clearly poised to breach.
Zane noticed immediately. His eyes darkened, pupils swallowing the amber iris as he stared—not at Teal’s face, not at the costume, but at the faint outline pressing insistently against the damp lace.
“Oh fuck yeah,” Zane breathed, his voice rough with approval, the words slipping out before he could think to filter them. The heat in his gaze was unmistakable, predatory in its intensity as his fingers tightened around the elastic waistband of the witch skirt, dragging it up another inch to bare more of Teal’s trembling stomach.
The motion was deliberate, possessive. The skirt now bunched high above Teal’s hipbones, the fishnets glinting in the dim light like a second skin.
The lace trim of the panties was taut, straining against the damp heat pooling between his thighs, and Zane’s grip on the waistband had tightened to the point of possession.
“Wait—you’re not mad?” Teal blurted, his voice cracking halfway through the question like a fuse snapping. His arms still hovered uselessly above his head, fingers twitching as if he didn’t trust himself to touch anything—not Zane’s wrist, not the rolling cart, not even the broom propped in the corner. The witch hat had long since slipped sideways, its point dangling over one eyebrow, makeup smudged from sweat and Zane’s lingering touch. He looked up at Zane through a fringe of dark lashes, eyes wide and uncertain, the lingering taste of lemon and salt still clinging to his tongue. “You’re *actually* okay with this?”
Zane’s grip on the skirt didn’t loosen.