Chapter 5: The Best Friend's Temptation
The musty smell of displaced dust hung in the air as Chris and I wrestled the old armchair towards the far wall. Sweat plastered my tank top to my back, and a stray curl kept sticking to my temple. “Okay, shove it left a bit more… perfect!” Chris grunted, straightening up and wiping his brow. He surveyed the room, eyes lingering on the newly cleared space in front of the window. “What about the coffee table? Could scoot it over here now, make a better flow.” He stepped closer, bending slightly to grab the table’s edge, his shoulder brushing mine. “Yeah, maybe,” I murmured, reaching down to help.
We slid the coffee table across the scuffed laminate floor, its legs screeching in protest. Dust motes danced wildly in the late afternoon sunbeam cutting through the window. Chris leaned back against the freshly positioned armchair, exhaling loudly. "Alright, mission accomplished," he grinned, wiping sweat from his neck with the back of his hand. He surveyed the rearranged room, the faint smell of our exertion mingling with old paper and pizza boxes left over from lunch. "Place actually looks livable now." His eyes flicked towards me, lingering just a beat too long near my damp tank top. A strange, almost nervous energy crackled between us, charged with the memory of his hand brushing mine moments ago. His grin turned teasing, playful, but something darker lurked beneath the surface. "So... feel like doing a little jig to celebrate?"
My body snapped rigid, then fluid, before my mind could even register the words. Hips swayed instantly, independent of any conscious thought, a slow, rolling motion that felt achingly familiar. My hands flew to the hem of my sweat-dampened tank top, peeling it up and over my head in one smooth motion. Cool air hit my bare skin as the fabric dropped to the dusty floor, forgotten. A vacant, blissful smile stretched my lips wide as I closed the distance between us. My bare stomach pressed against Chris’s thigh, my hips grinding in slow, deliberate circles against his leg. A muffled cry echoed somewhere deep inside my skull, desperate and trapped. Pure electric pleasure surged through me, drowning out that faint internal scream, making my breath catch. Chris froze, his playful expression vanishing, replaced by wide-eyed shock. He didn't push me away. His hand hovered awkwardly near my hip, trembling slightly. I kept moving, the rhythm deep in my bones now, a needy whimper escaping my throat as the pleasure intensified. His breath hitched; his gaze fixed, unblinking, on the curve of my breast.
A low groan escaped him, raw and involuntary, as my fingers found the button of my denim shorts. The zipper rasped down, loud in the sudden quiet of the rearranged room. My shorts pooled around my ankles, kicked aside without breaking the hypnotic rhythm of my hips grinding against his thigh. Cool air washed over my skin, leaving me in nothing but the flimsy black lace thong Chris had glimpsed earlier when we’d moved the dresser. "Raven... Jesus," he choked out, his voice thick, one hand finally settling shakily on my bare waist. The touch, hesitant at first, sent another jolt of that delicious, consuming fire straight through my core. That internal scream was just a faint buzz now, drowned out by the rising tide of pure, undeniable need. His eyes, wide and dark with disbelief and something else – hunger – tracked every roll of my hips, the way my nipples tightened against the thin cotton of my bra. Why was he still letting me do this? Why wasn't he stopping me? The questions flickered briefly, uselessly, before dissolving into the overwhelming pleasure. My bra strap slipped down one shoulder as I leaned closer, my breath hot against his ear, still moving, always moving. "Chris," I breathed, the name a sigh of pure want that surprised even me. His fingers tightened almost painfully on my hipbone. "Fuck," he whispered, the word ragged. "You're... you're really..." His other hand rose, trembling, hovering near the clasp of my bra. He didn't undo it. Instead, his grip on my waist shifted, pulling me insistently, roughly, forward. Off his thigh. Onto his lap. My knees sank into the worn cushion on either side of his hips, the sudden, intimate contact drawing a sharp gasp from me. My thong-clad core pressed down hard against the strained denim of his jeans, feeling the rigid heat beneath. A moan tore from my throat, loud and shameless, as the friction ignited sparks behind my eyelids. I ground down harder, seeking more, lost completely to the rhythm and the fire and the feel of him. His hands slid roughly up my bare back, pulling me flush against his chest, his own hips arching up instinctively to meet mine. That faint internal cry vanished entirely, silenced by the sheer, blinding ecstasy of it.
His hands were rough on my bare skin, digging into my waist like he wanted to anchor himself as much as hold me. My hips rolled, desperate, against the hard ridge of his jeans, chasing a peak just beyond reach within this frantic rhythm. The friction was maddening, incredible, a molten ache building deep inside that screamed for release. "Oh god, Chris," I moaned, my voice thick, alien, my head falling back as my bra strap slipped further. His breathing was ragged against my neck, hot puffs that sent shivers down my spine, mingling with the sweat cooling on my skin. He shifted under me, his own need obvious, pressing up harder, one hand fumbling lower, grazing the edge of my thong. The touch electrified me; a choked gasp ripped from my throat as pleasure surged, white-hot and all-consuming. That faint, trapped voice inside? Utterly obliterated now. Lost beneath the tide. His fingers hooked under the lace, hesitated, trembling. Then his other hand shot out, clamping onto my bare shoulder, the grip suddenly harsh, panicked. "Raven," he choked out, his voice raw, strained, cutting through the haze of my need like shattered glass. "Stop. Just... stop. Now." He pushed me back, not gently, putting distance between us, his eyes wide with a dawning horror that mirrored the confusion crashing over me. The command sliced through the trance like a blade. The dance ended. Abruptly. Brutally. My hips froze mid-grind, the sensual rhythm snapping off like a switch had been flipped. The overwhelming pleasure vanished, leaving a hollow, shocked void. I was suddenly, horrifyingly aware of my near-nakedness—the cold air on my skin, my bra askew, my thong damp—and Chris’s terrified expression inches from mine. Disorientation washed over me, cold and sickening, as the last echoes of ecstasy faded into stark, humiliating reality. What had I just been doing? Why was Chris looking at me like that? The sticky scent of sweat and arousal filled the small space between us, thick and accusatory. I scrambled back off his lap, legs wobbly, my skin prickling with sudden, cold shame. My discarded tank top and shorts lay crumpled on the dusty laminate floor, silent witnesses. His hand, the one that had gripped my waist, hung limp in the air, trembling. He wouldn’t meet my eyes. "Chris?" My voice was small, trembling, utterly lost. He just stared at his own shaking hand, breathing hard, looking like he might be sick.
The silence roared louder than any music, thick and choking. I stood there, half-naked, skin prickling under his horrified stare. My discarded clothes felt miles away on the dusty floor. Instinct took over before thought could form. I scrambled backwards, bare feet slapping the cool laminate, snatching up the crumpled tank top and shorts. Fabric scraped skin. Too rough. Wrong.
"Raven..." Chris finally rasped, the word barely audible, his eyes wide and fixed on the space I’d just vacated. He swallowed hard, the sound painfully loud. His knuckles were white where they gripped the armchair's faded fabric. "Jesus Christ."
I yanked my tank top on, the damp cotton clinging awkwardly, then shoved my legs into the shorts, fingers fumbling with the button. The scent of sweat and something else, sharp and intimate, hung heavy between us. My cheeks burned. That delicious fire from moments ago was gone, replaced by icy shame. "Look, it—it was just dancing," I stammered, my voice sounding thin and unconvincing even to my own ears. "We were celebrating. Moving furniture. Got carried away." The weak justification tasted like ash. I remembered the grinding, the moan, the sheer need. Had I wanted it? It felt... consuming. Essential. Like breathing. But Chris looked wrecked.
He finally dragged his gaze up to mine. Not desire in his eyes now. Pure, unvarnished terror. He pushed himself up from the chair, taking an unsteady step back, putting more distance between us. His voice shook, low and raw, cutting through the heavy air. "Raven. What the fuck was that about?"
My throat tightened, the words "just dancing" hanging pathetic and exposed in the thick air. I could still feel the phantom pressure of his jeans against my core, the terrifying bliss that had swallowed me whole. "Seriously, Chris," I insisted, my voice cracking, "moving that chair was a workout, the music in my head... I just got carried away." The lie tasted like dust and shame, thin as the faded band poster peeling beside the window. His eyes, wide and searching, saw right through it. He ran a shaky hand through his hair, leaving it standing on end. "Carried away? Raven, your eyes... they weren't there. It was like you..." He trailed off, unable to voice the violation he’d witnessed, his gaze flicking to my discarded thong strap peeking from under my shorts. The cool air prickled my bare arms, raising goosebumps despite the flush burning my cheeks. That consuming fire had fled, leaving a hollow ache and a terrifying echo of its intensity. Why hadn't he stopped me sooner? Why did part of me scream to crawl back onto his lap? Confusion warred with a deep, residual throb of arousal. The silence stretched, suffocating. Desperation clawed at me, a frantic need to bridge this awful chasm, to make the horrified look vanish from his face. "Look," I blurted out, the words tumbling free before sense could catch them, driven by a compulsion I didn't understand, "I... I could get changed? Something else? For another dance?" I gestured vaguely towards the bedroom door, the offer hanging obscenely in the charged silence. "Make it better?" His breath hitched audibly, his face draining of color, the sheer wrongness of the suggestion locking his muscles rigid.
Chris flinched as if I'd slapped him, his face chalk-white under the sweat. "Jesus, Raven," he choked out, voice scraping raw. "That's... no. Just stop."
He backed away another step, his shoulders hitting the wall beside the peeling band poster. The silence pulsed, thick with the smell of dust, sweat, and my lingering arousal. I stood frozen, shorts barely buttoned, tank top skewed, shame a cold cloak.
He stared at the floor, then at his hands, then finally, slowly, back at me. Not with fear anymore. Something harder, hungrier, edged with fascination. His breathing had changed – shallow, rapid. "You... you really want to?"
My throat closed. "I-I just... felt like dancing?" The lie felt flimsy, pathetic. "Moving stuff... got me wound up?" I gestured weakly at the displaced furniture. "A celebration dance?"
His gaze crawled over my body, lingering where the damp tank top clung. That look wasn't friendly anymore. It was the look Abernathy sometimes got. Calculating. "Yeah?" His voice was low, strained. "A celebration." He swallowed, hard, his knuckles white where he gripped the wall. Then his eyes locked onto mine, intense, almost feverish. "Okay."
He pushed off the wall. One step. Two. Closing the distance I’d scrambled to create. The scent of his sweat, sharp and male, mixed with mine. His voice dropped to a near-whisper, rough with something dangerous. "Then go put something... sexy on."
The words "Do a little jig" hung unspoken, but their shadow fell over me like a shroud. He didn't need to say them again. The command was embedded deep. My feet moved before my mind caught up, turning me towards my bedroom door, the hollow ache inside me already shifting, warming.
My feet moved before my mind caught up, turning me towards my bedroom door, the hollow ache inside me already shifting, warming. The familiar disconnect yawned wide; revulsion shivered under my skin like ice water while a deeper, insistent heat bloomed low in my belly, demanding satisfaction. I didn't look back at Chris, couldn't bear to see whatever look was on his face now – horror, fascination, or worse, that predatory gleam Abernathy got.
The hallway carpet felt rough under my bare soles, a stark contrast to the smooth laminate behind me. Inside my bedroom, the late afternoon light slanted through the blinds, striping the unmade bed and piles of clothes. That internal buzzing intensified, a low thrum of compulsion drowning out the frantic, whispered ‘no’ from my rational mind. My fingers, moving with an uncanny certainty I didn’t feel, bypassed the usual jeans and sweaters. They dove into the bottom drawer, past the sensible cotton, finding cool, slick satin and scratchy lace I barely remembered buying.
The outfit felt alien yet inevitable as I pulled it on: crimson lace that barely cupped my breasts, held by whisper-thin straps, and matching panties so sheer they were practically a dare. A garter belt clipped with deliberate slowness to sheer black stockings I found crumpled at the back. Standing before the mirror, the reflection was a stranger – flushed skin, dilated pupils, lips parted slightly. The crimson lace contrasted violently with the fading bruise Abernathy had left near my collarbone last week. "Just a dance," I whispered to the ghost in the glass, the lie tasting like ash. "He wanted a celebration." But the woman staring back radiated a desperate, trembling need that had nothing to do with moving furniture. The sharp scent of my own perfume, hastily sprayed, mingled with the metallic tang of fear-sweat.
My reflection in the mirror looked like a cheap fantasy, crimson lace stark against my skin, amplifying the fading bruise Abernathy had left. Taking a shaky breath that did nothing to calm the frantic drumming in my chest, I turned from the ghost in the glass. The hallway carpet felt abrasive, each step towards the living room amplifying the hollow, needy ache warring with my rising shame. The low thrum of compulsion drowned out my own thoughts, a familiar, terrifying current pulling me forward. My fingers traced the cold door handle, slick with sweat, before pushing it open.
The sight slammed into me. Chris sat slumped in the old armchair we’d just moved, the weak afternoon light catching the dust motes swirling around him. He’d taken off his jeans. They lay in a crumpled blue heap around his ankles. His faded grey boxers strained visibly against his erection. He looked up as I entered, his eyes wide, dark, and utterly fixed on me. His breathing was shallow, rapid, his knuckles white where he gripped the armrests. The scent of musk, sharper now, cut through my perfume.
"Jesus, Raven," he breathed, his voice thick, strained, the words catching. "You... you look..." He didn’t finish, just stared, his gaze crawling over the crimson lace barely containing me, the sheer stockings. The disconnect yawned wide; revulsion like ice water drenched my skin while that deep, insistent heat flared violently low in my belly, demanding action. That internal scream was a faint, distant buzz now, utterly overwhelmed by the terrifying, delicious pull towards him. My feet carried me forward, independent of my dizzied mind, closing the gap between the doorway and the chair. The silence roared, filled only by his ragged breaths and the frantic pounding of my own heart. Every nerve ending screamed, hyper-aware of the cool air on my legs, the scratch of lace, the rigid heat radiating from him. My body knew what it craved, what the trigger demanded it do next, even as my conscious mind recoiled. Why was he just sitting there? Why wasn’t he stopping this?
My feet moved without command, carrying me closer to the chair, to Chris. The crimson lace scraped my skin; the air felt thick with anticipation, dust motes suspended in the dying light. He didn’t speak, didn’t move his legs, just watched me approach, his knuckles bone-white on the chair arms. His strained boxers were impossible to ignore, a stark declaration against the faded grey fabric. A low thrum started deep in my core, that familiar, terrifying pull pushing aside the icy shame.
I stopped inches from his knees, the heat radiating from him palpable. My hips began a slow, deliberate roll, independent of thought, a rhythm older than memory. His breath hitched sharply, eyes glued to my swaying stomach. "Raven... fuck," he whispered, the sound rough, strained. I turned fluidly, the prickly wool of the chair back grazing my thigh as I lowered myself backwards.
My spine arched instinctively; my bare shoulders pressed against his chest. I felt the frantic hammering of his heart against my shoulder blade, the damp heat of his skin through his thin t-shirt. My hips lifted, then settled slowly back against the rigid heat trapped beneath his boxers, grinding down with practiced ease. A choked groan escaped him, his hands flying up to grip my bare hips, fingers digging in hard enough to bruise. Pleasure, sharp and undeniable, sliced through me, silencing the faint internal protest.
I shifted, rolling my hips against him again, harder. His grip tightened, pulling me down harder onto his lap. "Oh god, yes," he rasped, his voice cracking, hips jerking up uncontrollably to meet my downward grind. His breath was hot and ragged against my neck, smelling faintly of cheap beer and salt. The friction was maddening, exquisite, building a pressure inside me that demanded release. I arched my neck back against his shoulder, a low moan vibrating in my throat. His fingers slid lower, under the crimson lace edge of my panties, brushing the damp skin beneath. A jolt of pure electricity shot through me, white-hot and blinding. His groan deepened, turning into a guttural cry against my ear as his body bucked violently under mine, his grip like a vice. The world narrowed to sensation – his shuddering release, the slick heat pressed against me, the overwhelming wave of my own peak cresting and crashing, washing away everything else.
The blinding wave receded, leaving me slumped against Chris's chest, slick with sweat and trembling in the aftermath. His ragged breaths rasped in my ear, his hands still clenched possessively on my lace-covered hips, the harsh grip a counterpoint to the fading euphoria. A deep, hollow shame began flooding the space the pleasure had occupied, cold and sickening. "Oh god, Chris," I whispered, my voice thin and alien, reality crashing back with the weight of the armchair we’d just moved. "What... what was that?" The question hung, thick and suffocating, in the silence broken only by our uneven breathing and the distant city hum through the window.
"Fuck," Chris breathed out, a tremor running through him, his fingers finally loosening their bruising hold but not letting go entirely. He shifted slightly beneath me, the movement jarring against my oversensitized skin. The smell of sex and sweat clung heavily to the air, mingling with the dust we’d unsettled earlier. "I don't... I don't know, Raven." His denial sounded weak, unconvincing, even as he gently pushed me off his lap, his movements suddenly awkward, avoiding my eyes. I stumbled back a step, the stockings snagging on the rough carpet, the crimson lace suddenly feeling garish and obscene against my cooling skin. He scrambled to pull up his boxers and jeans, fumbling with the button, his face pale beneath its flush.
He finally looked at me, his expression a chaotic mix of horror, lingering arousal, and something darker, more calculating. It was the look I’d seen flicker in Abernathy’s eyes in the garage shadows after... after the chips. "You... you just..." He trailed off, unable to voice the violation again, his gaze dropping to the discarded bag of chips from lunch, forgotten on the cluttered coffee table beside the pizza box. His jaw tightened, a muscle jumping. He took a shaky step towards the table, his eyes fixed on the bag. The air crackled with a terrible tension, thick with unspoken dread. He picked up the half-empty bag, the crinkling sound unnaturally loud. He looked back at me, his eyes locking onto mine, a strange resolve hardening his features, erasing the fleeting guilt. "Right," he said, his voice unnervingly calm, detached. He held out the crinkling bag, the scent of salt and oil suddenly overwhelming. "Need a salty snack, Raven?"
My body reacted before my mind could even register the horror. My knees hit the rough carpet hard, a jolt of pain swallowed instantly by the overwhelming compulsion. I lunged forward, my hands finding his zipper, tearing it down with desperate, animalistic urgency.