DON'T GET CAUGHT

Laila's pov

The wood of the door was against my spine as Ethan’s knuckles hit against the other side.

"Laila? Are you there?"

Ryan didn’t move. If anything, the sound of Ethan’s voice made his grip on my waist tighter until his blunt nails dug into my skin. He was still buried deep inside me, and I could feel how hard he had gotten, fueled by the adrenaline of nearly being caught.

I bit my lower lip so hard I tasted copper. I had to be silent. If I breathed too loud, it would be over.

Ryan leaned in, his lips grazing my ear. "Don't make a sound," he whispered. 

Then, he shoved himself deeper into me.

He didn't thrust quickly. He withdrew slowly, inch by inch, until he was almost out, before sliding back in with a force that made my toes curl against the floor. It was a torture of the best kind. I buried my face in his neck, holding back a moan. 

"I think I heard something," Ethan’s voice came again, closer to the handle this time.

Ryan’s eyes stayed locked on mine, dark and challenging. He picked up the pace, his body hitting mine, his cock thrusting faster into me. I wrapped my arms around his neck, my fingers tangling in his hair, pulling him closer to muffle the sounds from my breath. Every time he hit the back of my throat with a silent moan, I felt the reckless thrill of it.

Finally, footsteps approached the door, but they weren't Ethan’s.

"Ethan, come get me a drink," Stella’s voice snapped. "Laila’s probably outside smoking or something. Let’s go."

 The moment we heard them walking away, we went rough. Ryan stopped playing. He gripped my thighs, pushing me higher against the door, and drove his full weight into me. I let out a strangled, muffled cry against his shoulder as the friction sent me over the edge for the third time, my body shaking as I came hard against him.

He followed seconds later, a low growl escaping his throat as he pinned me to the wood one last time before his weight slumped against me, both of us drenched in sweat and gasping for air.

***

The victory Brunch the next morning was my mother’s idea, which made it impossible to skip. She and Stella’s mom had been best friends since college, so when the team won, it was a family affair.

I sat at the long mahogany table, the smell of bacon and expensive coffee making my stomach turn in the best way possible.

Stella sat directly across from me, looking perfect in a sundress, her hand draped over Ryan’s arm. He looked different in the daylight, wearing a polo shirt, but I knew what was under that shirt. I knew exactly how those tattoos felt against my palms.

"You're very quiet today, Laila," Stella’s mom remarked, smiling at me. "Late night?"

"Something like that," I said, taking a slow sip of my orange juice.

Beside me, Ethan adjusted his weight. He had been looking at me since we sat down. "I looked for you at the party," he said, his voice low enough that only our end of the table could hear. 

I didn't blink, I just reached for the silver butter knife. "Must have been the music, Ethan. I was outside most of the night. Getting some air."

Under the table, I felt a heavy weight settle against my foot.

It was Ryan. He wasn't looking at me; he was listening to Stella talk about the upcoming formal. But his foot was nudging mine, sliding up my calf, his toes brushing the hem of my short skirt.

I felt a flush creep up my neck. I looked up and caught Ryan’s eyes for a split second. He didn't smile. He just watched me with that same dark, hungry look, while his girlfriend sat right next to him, laughing at a joke her father made.

"Pass the cream, Ryan?" I asked calmly, trying to steady my voice.

He reached for the pitcher, and as he handed it to me, his fingers lingered on mine, there was a slight stroke of his thumb across my knuckles.

"Here you go, Laila," he said.

I could feel Ethan watching me. I could feel Stella’s oblivious happiness. And most of all, I could feel the wetness beginning to return between my thighs. The heat that shot through me was a reminder of the bruises he’d left on my hips just hours ago.

The arrival of the neighbor, Mrs. Gable, was the perfect distraction. The mothers immediately turned toward the patio doors, their voices fading into neighborhood gossip and adult conversation.

​"We’re short of a chair," Stella’s mom called back. "Ethan, honey, grab one from the study?"

​Ethan didn’t even look up from his phone. "In a minute. I have to take this work call," he muttered, already standing up and walking toward the foyer. 

​"Don't worry about it," Stella said, her voice chirpy but her eyes flashing with something I didn't pick up immediately. "I’ll just share."

​ She slid out of her seat and settled directly onto Ryan’s lap. Ryan let out a huff of air, his hands instinctively on her waist. From across the table, I watched, my fork scraping against the fine china. The sight of her sitting there, where I had been just hours ago, made a bitter spark of jealousy in my chest.

​But Stella wasn't done.

She adjusted her weight, her back to the patio where the parents were. Under the cover of the long tablecloth and the high back of the chair, I saw her hand disappear between them. There was the faint zzzzp of a zipper.

Ryan’s knuckles turned white where they gripped the edge of the table. Stella gasped softly, her eyes shut for a second as she lowered herself. I knew that look. I knew exactly what she was feeling, the stretch, the heat inside her. 

She was fucking him right in front of me.

She leaned back, her hair brushing Ryan’s shoulder, her gaze locking onto mine with a triumphant, smug smirk. She knew I was watching. 

When Ethan returned, he stopped just behind me.

"You're flushed, Laila," he murmured, his hand resting on the back of my seat. "Is it too hot for you?"

I couldn't answer.

​Under the cover of the heavy tablecloth, Ryan’s hand wasn't gripping the table anymore. His fingers slid past Stella’s tangled legs, disappearing under my skirt.

​I froze, my fork falling against the china.

Ryan's hand found the damp heat between my thighs, his fingers sliding beneath my lace panties. Stella was still there,grinding against him, oblivious that his other hand was buried inside her best friend.

​"You look like you've seen a ghost," Ethan whispered in my ear.

 ​I gripped the table, knuckles white. Ryan’s thumb found my clit, rubbing it with a motion that made my vision blur. Every time Stella moved on him, his fingers drove deeper into me.

​"The omelets are delicious, aren't they, Laila?" Stella’s mom called out from the patio, glancing back over her shoulder.

​"To die for," I managed to say, almost out of breath. 

If Stella wanted to play at the table, she was going to have to learn that I didn't play fair.