Wet Secrets

  Lila's POV

  An urgent pounding on the door smashed me out of my sleep at 1:17 AM, or so the digital clock on my nightstand indicated with its red shining across my disorderly bedroom.

  A sultry summer night of Willow Creek was lying against the windows, the humid air coming in, however, the fan was spinning slowly. I sat up with my heart racing, my sweaty thin tank top still sticking to my skin, and the fabric so transparent that it showed every one of the curves of my braless breasts.

  Who would be at the door at such a late hour? I picked up my phone, no alerts, no texts from Mia or anyone.

  The knocks grew frantic, a slurred voice filtering through the door: "Lila? It's Jax. Please... let me in." Mia's brother. My pulse skipped.

  I'd harbored a secret crush on him since our teen sleepovers, stealing glances at his broad shoulders and easy grin, but he was off-limits, her family, her protector. Still, drunk and alone outside? I couldn't ignore him.

  I didn’t even take a minute and simply threw on a tiny pair of shorts meant for sleeping that barely covered my thighs.

  I went straight to the door, checked the door through the peephole, and found it was him standing there.

  He was holding onto the light in the hallway and his hair was a little messy, his shirt untucked over a pair of cargo shorts, and his eyes most probably were watery due to the whiskey that he had drunk all night.

  His body, which was quite muscular because of the army, and had some scars, was what I mainly saw and he also had a little stubble on his jaw. Best friend's brother.

  Sympathy won; I unlocked the door, pulling it open just enough. "Jax? What happened?" He stumbled forward, the door clicking shut behind him, bringing a rush of bourbon and masculine sweat into my small apartment.

  "Thanks, Lila," he muttered, voice rough and low, rubbing a hand over his face as he kicked off his shoes haphazardly.

  His gaze flicked over me quick, but lingering on the way my tank dipped low, nipples pebbling from the sudden draft, then down to my exposed legs.

  Heat crept up my neck; I wasn't dressed to impress, just comfortable for bed, but the thin clothes felt suddenly seductive in his presence.

  "Rough night at the bar. Didn't wanna drive like this. Mia's out.. can I crash?" I nodded, leading him to the living room couch, flipping on the lamp.

  The soft light bathed the space in warm shadows, my sketchbooks and empty wine glass from earlier scattered on the coffee table.

  "Water first. Sit." He collapsed onto the cushions, thighs spreading wide, the fabric of his shorts tightening over the bulge there accidental, but my eyes darted away fast, old crush stirring unwelcome heat low in my belly.

  I returned from the kitchen with a glass, handing it over. Our fingers brushed electric, lingering a beat too long.

  He drank deep, throat working, eyes meeting mine over the rim. "You're a lifesaver." We fell into talk, easy at first, his deployment stories, the endless sand and adrenaline crashes; my graphic design grind, the late nights tweaking logos for ungrateful clients.

  The air thickened with the late hour, words flowing intimate, but his gaze kept wandering. To the hem of my shorts riding up as I sat on the coffee table, knees inches from his.

  To the tank's neckline dipping when I leaned forward, revealing the swell of my breasts. Not deliberate on my part, just the clothes, the humidity making everything cling.

  But the situation conspired: the dim lamp highlighting his scar, the way his t-shirt stretched over his chest with each breath, pulling me in like gravity.

  He set the glass down, swaying as he stood. "Bathroom?" I pointed down the hall, watching him go, the door clicking shut.

  Minutes ticked by too many. Worry gnawed; was he sick? I knocked softly. "Jax? You alright?" Silence. Pushing the door open, steam hit me from the running faucet, but the room was empty.

  The window cracked open, fire escape ladder glinting outside. Panic surged. "Jax!" I leaned out, cool metal under my palms, scanning the shadows. Nothing.

  Heart hammering, I turned and froze. He stepped from the alcove behind the door, eyes dark and intense, closer than breath.

  "Just... needed air," he murmured, but he didn't back up, his body crowding mine against the sink, heat radiating off him like a furnace.

  Tension crackled electric, the small bathroom shrinking around us.

  He had whiskey on his breath, and the smell was almost hitting me in the face, his one hand against the counter by my side, as if he was trapping me.

  I did a very big gulp, the porcelain was very cool against my back, and my tank was rubbing against his chest with every shallow breath.

  Definitely not trying to seduce just the steam sticking to the mirror, the accidental press of bodies in the tight space, the forbidden pull of best friend's brother coming into my house.

  His eyes went down to my lips, which were open in a gasp, and then down to the very quick breathing of my chest, the nipples of my breasts through the fabric being stretched.

  "Lila..." His voice roughened, free hand twitching at his side, fighting the pull. Mine mirrored, rising to his chest to push? Or steady? The touch lingered, feeling his heart thunder under my palm.

  The seduction bloomed unintentional: humidity making my skin glow, his drunk haze blurring lines, our the steam.

  He leaned in, nose grazing my hair, inhaling deep. "You smell... fuck, so good." Words accidental, but they ignited.

  I turned my head, lips brushing his jaw soft, unintended. His hand settled on my waist, fingers splaying over the bare skin where tank met shorts, burning through me.

  "Jax... we can't. Mia..." But my body arched subtle, traitorous, the ache between my thighs growing insistent.

  He groaned low, forehead pressing to mine, shifting his hips and there it was, the hard length in his shorts pressing against my hip, thick and unyielding.

  "Trying to calm down," he rasped, voice strained, but he rocked forward rubbing his dick against the curve of my ass as I half-turned toward the sink, the friction desperate, seeking relief but stoking the fire higher.