Chapter 1: Stolen Glances & Whiskey Temptations
The bass still thrummed in KJ’s bones, a phantom rhythm echoing the concert crowd’s roar that had finally faded. Ollie’s bedroom smelled faintly of stale beer, cheap cologne, and their shared sweat, the air thick and warm despite the open window. The only light came from the small bedside lamp, painting long, distorted shadows across the unmade bed where Ollie lay sprawled, already deep in the dead-to-the-world sleep of the pleasantly drunk. His breath was even, heavy.
KJ stretched, feeling the damp fabric of her little black concert dress cling unpleasantly. "Ugh, sticky," she murmured, more to the room than anyone listening. She started to peel it off, a slow, almost ritualistic shedding of the night’s energy. The straps slid down her shoulders. The fabric caught momentarily on her hips before she shimmied it down past her thighs, stepping out of the pooled material with a sigh of relief.
Cooler air washed over her skin, a welcome contrast. She stood for a second in just her lingerie – a deliberate choice she’d made hours before, knowing Ollie would appreciate the reveal. Deep crimson lace cupped her breasts, the matching garter straps biting firmly into the soft skin of her upper thighs, connecting to sheer black fishnets that clung to her legs.
She felt powerful like this. Seen. Desired. Especially by Ollie. She glanced fondly at his sleeping form, a soft smile playing on her lips. He’d been adorable tonight, singing off-key and swaying into her, trusting and utterly hers.
She bent to pick up the discarded dress, the movement accentuating the curve of her spine, the tension of the garters. She tossed the dress towards the laundry hamper. Missed. Shrugging, she turned towards the door, intending to grab a glass of water from the kitchen. The lamplight caught the sheen of the lace, the dusky gold of her bare skin above the fishnets. She ran a hand through her tousled hair, stretching her neck, utterly oblivious to the other presence in the room.
Shaun sat rigidly in the worn armchair tucked into the corner, plunged in deep shadow. He’d followed them up after the concert, intending just to crash on the couch, but Ollie had mumbled something about grabbing PJs and passed out immediately. Shaun had stayed, too tired initially to move, sipping water, letting the ringing in his ears subside.
Then KJ started changing.
He hadn’t meant to look. Not really. It had just… happened. The first slide of the dress strap. The expanse of smooth back revealed. The defiant jut of her hip as she shimmied free. And then… the lingerie. The bold red against her skin. The stark contrast of the dark fishnets. The way the garter straps emphasized the strength and vulnerability of her thighs. The unapologetic display of her bare breasts before she straightened.
A hot flush crawled up Shaun’s neck, spreading across his cheeks, burning his ears. He felt transfixed, horrified, and utterly, shamefully aroused. His gaze, once accidentally caught, now felt welded to her. Every shift of muscle, every breath she took, was magnified. Ollie’s girl. Ollie’s girl. Ollie’s right there. The mantra did nothing. His best friend slept inches away, oblivious, while Shaun’s jeans felt suddenly, painfully tight, his lungs constricted. He froze, praying the shadows were deep enough, his own stillness absolute. Guilt warred with a visceral pull he hadn't known he was capable of feeling towards her. Not like this. Never like this. It felt like a betrayal carved into his bones.
Kj padded towards the door, humming a snippet of one of the band’s songs. She paused, glanced vaguely towards the dark corner where Shaun sat, a deeper pool of shadow within the dim room. Her eyes, adjusted to the low light but not fully focused, registered only a shape – the familiar silhouette of the armchair. Shaun must have gone straight to the couch, she thought absently. She pulled the bedroom door closed quietly behind her.
Shaun released a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding, sharp and shaky. He slumped back against the chair, the cheap fabric rough against his heated skin. His heart hammered against his ribs like a trapped bird. He scrubbed a hand over his face, trying to erase the image seared onto his retinas: the crimson lace, the fishnets, the curve of her hip, the dusky gold skin. The intimacy of it, performed unthinkingly in what she thought was safe privacy. With Ollie sleeping. With Shaun… unseen.
Except he had seen. And the forbidden thrill of it, the sheer wrongness mixed with undeniable desire, left him feeling hollowed out and electric all at once. He sat for long minutes, the muffled sounds of the city filtering through the window, Ollie’s soft snores a constant, accusing counterpoint. He couldn’t stay here, surrounded by the scent of her perfume mixed with Ollie’s. He needed air. Space. To somehow unsee what he’d seen.
He pushed himself up, legs slightly unsteady. Avoiding looking at the bed, he crept to the door and slipped out into the dimly lit hallway.
The kitchen light was on, spilling a warm yellow rectangle onto the worn linoleum. KJ was at the sink, filling a glass with water. She’d pulled on one of Ollie’s oversized band t-shirts. It hung low on her thighs, covering the lingerie, but the fishnets and the tops of the garter straps were still visible below the hem. She turned, leaning back against the counter, taking a long sip. Her eyes met his as he hovered in the doorway.
"Oh, hey Shaun," she said, her voice still carrying a trace of the concert’s energy. She smiled easily. "Didn't realise you were still up. Thought you'd be comatose on the couch by now." She gestured towards the living room with her glass. "Ollie’s dead to the world."
Shaun forced his gaze to stay fixed on her face, on the friendly curve of her lips, not letting it drift lower to where the t-shirt ended. It was an act of sheer will. "Yeah," he managed, his voice sounding rough. He cleared his throat. "Just... getting some water." He moved past her towards the sink, careful to leave space. The air felt charged, thick with everything unsaid, everything he couldn't let her see.
He filled a glass, the sound of the running water loud in the quiet apartment. He could feel her watching him, her presence a physical warmth beside him. His knuckles were white around the glass.
"Still wired?" she asked, tilting her head. "I am. That encore was insane." She pushed off the counter. "Think I’m gonna put something dumb on the TV. Wanna watch?"
The invitation was casual, friendly. The same way she’d always treated him – like Ollie’s reliable, harmless best friend. A buddy. One of the guys. The thought was a fresh twist of the knife. He wanted to say no. To retreat to the couch, bury himself under a blanket, and try to forget the last fifteen minutes. But refusing felt suspicious. And a treacherous, weak part of him wanted to be near her, even in this agonising proximity.
"Uh, sure," he said, turning off the tap. He didn't trust his voice much. "Why not."
He followed her into the living room, the space dominated by a sagging couch and a large, slightly outdated TV. KJ flopped down at one end, tucking her feet up beside her. The motion made the hem of Ollie’s shirt ride up another inch. Shaun saw a flash of crimson lace garter tab high on her thigh before the fabric settled. He quickly looked away, pretending to search for the remote on the cluttered coffee table.
He found it, hands fumbling slightly. He kept his back to her for a second longer than necessary, taking a steadying breath. Just act normal. Be Shaun. Ollie’s Shaun. He clicked the TV on, the screen flaring to life with a burst of sound and colour – some loud, chaotic game show. He sank down onto the opposite end of the couch, putting as much worn fabric between them as possible.
The game show blared – frantic contestants, shrieking host, jarringly bright colors against the dim living room. Shaun gripped the remote like a lifeline, knuckles white, staring at the screen without seeing it. The worn fabric of the couch scratched through his jeans, grounding him, or trying to. Ollie’s snores were a faint, rhythmic rumble from down the hall. A constant reminder.
KJ shifted, pulling one fishnet-clad leg up onto the cushion beside her, tucking it under her. The movement was fluid, unthinking. The hem of Ollie’s oversized band tee slid higher. Crimson lace. A sliver of dusky skin above the fishnet top. The taut line of a garter strap cutting into the soft flesh of her inner thigh.
He saw it. Couldn’t not see it. His gaze snapped back to the TV screen, a hot flush searing his neck and ears. Look away. Look away now. But the image was burned in. The lace. The skin. The forbidden intimacy of it. His throat tightened. His jeans felt like a vice. He shifted subtly, trying to relieve the pressure, the material rasping uncomfortably. Sweat prickled at his temples despite the cool night air drifting through the open window.
A beat of silence stretched, thick and humming, broken only by the inane chatter of the TV. He felt the weight of her attention shift. Slowly, deliberately, he dared to glance sideways.
KJ wasn’t watching the screen. Her gaze was fixed on him. Dark, intense. Unblinking. Her lips were slightly parted. There was no smile now. No easy camaraderie. Just… awareness. A knowing heat that stripped away the pretense. She’d seen him looking. Seen the flicker of hunger he couldn’t hide.
No words. Just that look. Electricity crackled in the space between them, thick enough to choke on. The game show noise faded into a meaningless buzz.
His breath hitched. Every muscle tensed, coiled. The guilt, the loyalty, the years of friendship – they were still there, screaming warnings in the back of his skull. But they were drowned out by the roaring pulse in his ears, the frantic drumming of his heart against his ribs, the sheer magnetic pull radiating from her. Ollie’s girl. Ollie’s girl. The thought was a dull echo, powerless against the raw, visceral surge.
He didn’t move towards her. Couldn’t. His body felt locked down, paralyzed by warring impulses.
She moved.
One fluid motion. She pushed herself off the cushion, knees sinking into the worn fabric between them. Her eyes never left his. The scent of her perfume – something warm and subtly spicy – washed over him, mingling with the faint smell of the concert still clinging to her skin. Before he could process, before he could think, her weight settled onto his lap. Straddling him. The thin barrier of their clothes felt obscenely inadequate.
Her hands came up, framing his face. Her thumbs brushed his cheekbones, rough calluses scraping lightly against his stubble. Still no words. Her gaze held his, demanding, questioning, daring.
He was lost. Utterly lost. The last shred of resistance snapped.
His hands found her hips, fingers digging into the soft give above the fishnets, above the garter straps, feeling the heat of her through Ollie’s thin t-shirt. He pulled her flush against him, a groan tearing from his throat as the hard ridge of his erection pressed firmly against the apex of her thighs, separated only by layers of denim and lace.
Her breath hitched in response, a sharp little gasp. Her eyes fluttered shut for a heartbeat. Then they opened, blazing. She lowered her head.
Their mouths crashed together. Not gentle. Not tentative. A collision. Hungry. Desperate. Her lips were soft, insistent, opening under his. Her tongue met his, hot and demanding. The taste of her – faintly metallic, faintly sweet, uniquely KJ – flooded his senses. It was dizzying. Consuming. He kissed her back with a ferocity that startled him, hands tightening on her hips, pulling her impossibly closer, grinding her down onto him. The friction was exquisite agony through their clothes.
She moaned into his mouth, a low, throaty sound that vibrated straight through him. Her hands slid from his face, tangling in his hair, pulling, demanding more. Her hips began to move against his, a slow, deliberate roll that mimicked the rhythm they both craved. Up. Down. Grinding the hard heat of him against the soft core of her. The fishnets rasped against his jeans with every movement, a lewd counterpoint to their ragged breathing and the muffled sounds of lips and tongues.
He broke the kiss, gasping for air, trailing desperate, open-mouthed kisses down the column of her throat. Her head fell back, baring her neck, a silent invitation. His hands slid up her sides, bunching the soft cotton of Ollie’s t-shirt. He needed more. Skin. He needed to feel her.
He grabbed the hem, yanking it upwards. She lifted her arms instinctively, aiding him, the fabric sliding over her head in one swift motion, discarded onto the couch beside them.
She sat above him, bathed in the flickering glow of the TV. Crimson lace cups barely containing her breasts. Fishnets. Garter straps biting into the smooth skin of her thighs. The dusky gold expanse of her stomach and shoulders. Utterly exposed. Utterly breathtaking.
His breath stopped. For a second, he just stared, overwhelmed by the reality of her, here, now, in his lap. Ollie’s girl. His best friend’s girl. The thought was a distant, cold ember buried under a consuming wildfire.
He didn’t hesitate. His mouth found the swell of her breast above the lace, teeth grazing the sensitive skin. She cried out, a sharp, breathy sound. Her fingers tightened painfully in his hair. He laved the spot with his tongue, soothing the tiny sting, then moved lower. His fingers hooked into the delicate lace cup, pulling it down roughly, freeing her breast. The nipple, dark and hard, was already peaked.
He took it into his mouth, hot and wet. Sucking hard. She arched against him, pressing herself deeper, a low moan trembling through her body. Her thighs clenched around his hips. He bit down, gently at first, then harder, testing. Her gasp was sharp, followed by a broken cry that wasn't pain. Her hips jerked, grinding down onto his trapped cock with renewed urgency. He sucked harder, teeth scraping the tender flesh, his other hand finding her other breast, squeezing, thumb rubbing rough circles over the lace-covered nipple.
The sharp gasp tore from her throat as Shaun's teeth grazed her nipple – not pain, but a shockwave of sensation that arched her spine. Her fingers fisted in his hair, pulling him closer, grinding herself harder against the rigid line of his cock trapped beneath her. "Fuck, Shaun," she breathed, the words ragged, lost against the blare of the TV.
He didn’t need words. Need was a raw current arcing between them, crackling in the humid air. His hand slid from her breast, down the smooth plane of her stomach, rough calluses catching on the delicate lace waistband of her panties. She shivered. His fingers dipped lower, tracing the damp heat already soaking through the thin fabric. A low groan escaped him.
Suddenly, he surged upwards, dislodging her balance. Before she could react, his arms were under her, one beneath her knees, the other locking around her back.
"Shaun—!" Her protest was cut short as he lifted her off the couch effortlessly, her legs instinctively wrapping around his waist. The sudden shift left her dizzy, clinging to his shoulders. Her discarded shirt lay forgotten on the cushions.
He didn't hesitate. He walked, carrying her weight easily through the darkened hallway. The only light came from the glow of the kitchen behind them and the flicker of the TV spilling from the living room doorway. Ollie’s rhythmic snores were a low, steady drumbeat from the bedroom they passed. Her heart hammered against his chest, a frantic counterpoint. She buried her face in the curve of his neck, breathing in the scent of sweat and cheap beer and something uniquely, terrifyingly him.
He pushed open the door to his small, spare room – a stark contrast to Ollie’s. Minimal furniture, band posters on the walls. He didn’t take her to the narrow bed. Instead, he backed her against the nearest wall beside the door, the cool plaster a shock against her bare skin. He kept her suspended, her legs locked around him, her back pressed hard into the unyielding surface. His eyes, dark and burning, held hers. No words. Just the frantic pulse in his throat, the heat radiating off him, the impossible pressure of him against her core.
He freed himself with rough urgency, the rasp of his zipper loud in the quiet room. Then, without preamble, he pushed her soaked panties aside and thrust into her, hard and deep. A choked cry tore from her throat, swallowed by the press of his mouth against hers. It wasn’t gentle. It was claiming. Possessive. The friction was immediate, intense, driving the air from her lungs. She clawed at his shoulders, her back scraping against the wall as he set a punishing rhythm, driving into her again and again, the force pinning her in place. His breath came in harsh gasps against her skin, his hips pistoning relentlessly. He lasted forever, it seemed, an eternity of raw, animalistic need where every thrust slammed her against the wall, every drag sent sparks up her spine. She writhed, trying to meet him, to find leverage, lost in the sheer physicality of it, the forbidden thrill amplifying every sensation. He didn’t slow, didn’t falter, pushing them both towards the edge without surrendering, his control iron-clad even as his muscles trembled with the strain.
Just when she felt herself splintering, teetering on the precipice from the sheer, brutal force of it, he stopped. Abruptly. Buried deep inside her, he held perfectly still, his chest heaving against hers, sweat dripping from his brow onto her collarbone. The sudden stillness was almost more shocking than the movement. He pulled out, the loss leaving her gasping, empty and aching.
He lowered her legs, letting her slide down the wall until her feet touched the floor. Then, without a word, he spun her around, pressing her front against the cool plaster, her cheek flat against the surface. His hands gripped her hips, pulling them back towards him. He dropped to his knees behind her. The sudden shift, the vulnerability of the position, sent a fresh wave of heat through her. His hands slid up the backs of her thighs, pushing the remnants of the fishnets and the crimson lace higher. Then he buried his face between her legs.
His tongue was relentless. A hot, wet demand. No teasing, no build-up. He ate her out like a man starved, his tongue circling her clit, plunging deep, licking broad, firm strokes. The intimacy of it, the shockingly direct pleasure after the violence against the wall, made her knees buckle. She braced her hands against the wall, pressing her forehead to the plaster, muffling her cries against her arm. He gripped her ass, holding her open, his tongue fucking her with the same focused intensity he’d possessed moments before. It was overwhelming, decadent, driving her towards climax faster than she wanted, the tension coiling unbearably tight. "Shaun... oh god, Shaun..." she whimpered, her body trembling, poised to shatter.
He pulled back again, just as abruptly as before. She nearly sobbed in frustration. He stood, his hands rough on her hips, spinning her back to face him. His eyes were wild, pupils blown, his cock hard and glistening. He lifted her again, carrying her the few steps to the narrow, unmade bed. He tossed her onto the mattress, the springs groaning in protest. Before she could catch her breath, he was on her, pressing her down, his weight a welcome anchor. He shoved her legs apart, hooked them over his elbows, and slammed back into her in one smooth, deep stroke.
This was different. Not the brutal, wall-pinning force, but a fierce, driving rhythm powered by pure, unleashed need. He fucked her like something wild had been uncaged inside him, his hips snapping against hers, the sound of skin on skin sharp in the small room. He looked down at her, his gaze locked on hers, demanding her witness him. She met it, her own desperation mirrored back. She wrapped her legs tighter around him, pulling him deeper, meeting every thrust with a lift of her hips, her own moans mingling with his harsh breaths. The friction built again, higher, faster, an unstoppable wave cresting.
This time, he didn’t stop. He didn’t hold back. The rhythm became frantic, losing its precision, driven solely by the desperate need for release. The tension snapped. Her climax hit her like a physical blow, a silent scream ripping through her as her body convulsed around him, pulling him deeper still. He shouted, a raw, guttural sound ripped from his chest, burying himself to the hilt as his own release pulsed into her, hot and endless. He collapsed onto her, his weight heavy, his face buried in her neck, their bodies slick and trembling together. The frantic drumming of his heart echoed against her ribs, the only sound besides their ragged, desperate breaths in the sudden, charged silence of the dark room. Ollie's distant snore drifted through the wall.