My Best Friend's Son Is My Secret Lover And Other Stories

Wild Party

The bass didn’t just vibrate through the floorboards; it rattled the very foundation of my teeth. I sat on the edge of the guest bed, a legal brief in my lap that I had been staring at for three hours without absorbing a single word. Outside, the sun had long since dipped below the horizon, replaced by the neon strobe lights and the muffled roars of a crowd that had invaded the house like a predatory pack.

Earlier that afternoon, Julian had announced his plans with a casual, devastating shrug. “Just a few friends over, Ma. A little ‘welcome home’ kickback.”

Sarah had sighed, that indulgent motherly smile playing on her lips even as she grumbled. Now, she was in the room next door, likely hiding under a pillow. I, on the other hand, was trapped in a cage of my own making.

I stood up, my throat parched. I needed water—ice-cold water—to put out the fire that had been smoldering in my chest since Julian’s "towel incident" this morning. I pulled on a silk robe over my nightdress, tying the belt tight, as if the fabric could act as armor.

Stepping into the hallway was like walking into the mouth of a dragon. The music—a heavy, grinding hip-hop beat—blasted upward, shaking the portraits on the walls. I made my way to the balcony overlooking the sunken living room and froze.

"She raised a demon," I whispered to the empty hallway. Sarah had tried to raise a gentleman, but the creature downstairs was something else entirely.

The house was packed. The air was thick with the scent of expensive cologne, spilled vodka, and sweat. And there, in the center of the chaos, was the sun around which everything else orbited.

Julian.

He was leaning against the back of the plush velvet sofa, a drink in one hand, looking like a dark prince presiding over a court of chaos. He wasn't just hosting; he was performing. And he knew exactly who his audience was.

I should have turned around. I should have gone back to my room and locked the door. But my feet were leaden, my eyes fixed on the scene below.

Julian was flanked by two women. They were young—twenty-two, maybe twenty-three—with long, effortless hair and skin that hadn't yet learned the stress of a boardroom. They were draped over him like silk scarves. One had her hand on his thigh; the other was whispering into his ear, her body pressed flush against his side.

He didn't push them away. In fact, as his dark eyes drifted upward and caught mine through the shadows of the balcony, he leaned back. He didn't break eye contact. He stayed locked on me as he tilted his head, allowing the girl on his right to press her lips to the pulse point of his neck.

I felt a surge of heat so violent it made my vision blur. It wasn't just anger; it was a jagged, ugly jealousy that tore through my professional facade. He was doing this on purpose. Every touch, every low-thrumming laugh he shared with those girls was a dart aimed directly at me. He was showing me what he was—a playboy, a man who could have anyone, a man who didn't need the "ice queen" upstairs.

He whispered something back to the girl, and she giggled, her hand sliding up to chest. Julian’s smirk widened, his gaze still pinned to mine, mocking me. See? his eyes seemed to say. This is how easy it is.

I couldn't breathe. The air in the foyer was stagnant and hot. I turned away from the railing, my heart hammering a frantic, erratic rhythm against my ribs. I needed to get out of his line of sight.

I practically ran down the back stairs, bypassing the main crowd, and ducked into the kitchen. It was supposed to be a sanctuary, but even here, the music thudded through the walls. I gripped the edge of the marble island, my knuckles white.

“He’s a child,” I hissed to the empty room, my voice trembling. “He’s a spoiled, arrogant child.”

But the image of his hands on those women wouldn't leave my mind. I could feel the phantom sensation of his touch on my own shoulder from earlier, the damp heat of his palm. I was thirty-five years old. I was a Senior Partner at one of the most prestigious firms in the city. I shouldn't be cowering in a kitchen because a twenty-six-year-old was kissing someone else.

I reached for a glass, my hands shaking so hard the crystal clinked against the faucet. I filled it with water, drinking it down in desperate, jagged gulps. It did nothing. The jealousy was a physical weight in my stomach, a cold, hard stone that refused to dissolve.

I was losing my mind. I was falling for the "game" he had bragged about.

I leaned my forehead against the cool surface of the refrigerator, closing my eyes. I just needed to wait for the party to end. I just needed to survive the night.

But then, the swinging door to the kitchen creaked open.

The scent of cedarwood and expensive gin hit me before I even heard his footsteps. The music grew louder for a split second before the door clicked shut, sealing us in a heavy, suffocating silence.

“Thirsty, Elena?”

The voice was right behind me. Too close. I didn't turn around. I couldn't. If I turned around, he would see the ruin in my eyes. He would see that his little performance had worked perfectly.

“The water in the living room was a bit… crowded,” I said, my voice remarkably cold, a testament to years of legal training.

“Is that what we’re calling it?” I heard the rustle of his shirt as he moved, the heat of his body radiating against my back. “I thought you liked a good show.”

I finally turned, pulling my robe tighter around my waist, my eyes flashing with a fire I couldn't hide. Julian was standing there, his shirt unbuttoned halfway, a smudge of pink lipstick mocking me from his collar. He looked disheveled, dangerous, and entirely too satisfied.

“Go back to your guests, Julian,” I snapped. “I’m sure they’re missing their center of attention.”

He didn't move. He stepped into my space, trapping me between his body and the cold steel of the fridge. He leaned in, his shadow swallowing me whole.

“You looked lonely up there,” he murmured, his voice a dark caress. “I thought you might want to join the party. Or maybe you just liked watching.”

“I wasn't watching you.”

“Liar.” He reached out, his thumb catching a stray drop of water on my bottom lip. His touch was electric, a spark that threatened to set the whole kitchen ablaze. “You were burning up, Elena. I could feel the heat from across the room.”

I pushed against his chest, but it was like trying to move a mountain. He was solid, real, and utterly relentless.

“Get out,” I whispered, though there was no conviction in it.

He leaned down, his lips inches from mine, the scent of the random girl still clinging to him, fueling my rage and my desire in equal measure. “Make me.”