The First Taste

Julian's lips are still grazing my jaw when I decide I've had enough of teasing. The penthouse buzzes around us, a blur of drunken laughter and pulsing music, but here in this shadowed corner, it's just him and me—and the weight of Lena's stare prickling my skin. I don't care. Let her watch. Let her burn. I tilt my head, catching Julian's mouth with mine, and it's like flipping a switch. His kiss is hungry, all teeth and tongue, and I match it, sinking my fingers into his hair to pull him closer. He tastes like wine and rebellion, and I want to drown in it.

His hands slide down my hips, rough and possessive, pinning me against the wall. My dress rides up as I hook a leg around his thigh, feeling the hard press of him through his jeans. Heat coils tight in my core, and I moan into his mouth—a low, needy sound that makes him growl in response. The party fades to static; there's only the slick heat of his lips, the scrape of his stubble, the way his fingers dig into my flesh like he's claiming me right here, right now.

"Kitchen," I gasp, breaking the kiss just long enough to nod toward the door behind us. I don't want to stop, but I need more—more space, more skin, more of him. He doesn't argue, just grabs my hand and pulls me through the crowd, his grip firm and urgent. My pulse hammers as we slip into the kitchen, the door swinging shut behind us. It's quieter here, the hum of the fridge and clink of bottles a faint backdrop to our ragged breathing. The counters gleam under soft light, and I don't hesitate—I push him back against one, my hands already tugging at his shirt.

"Impatient, huh?" he says, voice rough with amusement, but his eyes are dark, pupils blown wide. I don't answer, just yank the fabric open, buttons popping loose as I drag my nails down his chest. The wine stain's still there, a dark bloom across his skin, and I lean in, licking it slow and deliberate. He groans, head tipping back, and the sound sends a jolt straight between my thighs. His hands find my ass, lifting me onto the counter, and I wrap my legs around him, pulling him flush against me.

Our mouths crash together again, messy and desperate, tongues tangling as I grind against him. The friction's maddening, my dress bunched up around my hips, and I can feel how much he wants this—wants *me*. His fingers slip under the hem, brushing the edge of my panties, and I arch into him, silently begging for more. He's about to oblige when the door creaks open, and I freeze, my lips still locked on his.

"Sasha," comes a voice, sharp and familiar, cutting through the haze. I pull back, chest heaving, and there she is—Lena, leaning against the doorframe, her smirk a blade. Her red hair spills over one shoulder, and that damn dress hugs her curves like it's painted on. She's a vision of spite and sex, and my body reacts before my brain catches up—heat flaring low, a twisted mix of anger and want.

"Bad timing, Lena," I snap, but my voice is breathy, betraying me. Julian's hands are still on me, his breath hot against my neck, but he's looking at her now, curiosity flickering in his eyes. I want to shove him away, drag him closer, scream at her—anything to break this moment—but I don't. I just sit there, pinned between them, my skin buzzing.

"Who says it's bad?" Lena steps forward, hips swaying like she's dancing, and I can't tear my eyes away. She stops inches from us, close enough that I can smell her perfume—jasmine and something darker, something that used to drive me wild. "Looks like I'm just in time."

"What the hell are you doing?" I say, but it's weak, and she knows it. Her gaze flicks to Julian, then back to me, and there's a challenge in it—a dare I've never been able to resist.

"Joining the party," she says, and before I can process it, she's reaching out, her fingers brushing my cheek, then trailing down my neck. My breath hitches, and Julian shifts, his grip tightening on my thighs like he's not sure whether to pull me away or push me toward her. Lena's touch is electric, familiar in a way that makes my chest ache, and when she leans in, her lips hovering over mine, I don't stop her.

The kiss is slow at first, a tease, her tongue flicking against mine like she's testing me. I taste her—vodka and heat—and it's a punch to the gut, dragging me back to nights we spent tangled in sheets, clawing at each other. Julian's still there, pressed against me, and I feel his hands slide up my back, urging me on. Then Lena's pulling him in, her mouth leaving mine to claim his, and it's a mess—a beautiful, filthy mess of lips and hands and gasps.

I don't know who's kissing who anymore. My fingers are in Lena's hair, tugging hard, while Julian's teeth graze my collarbone. Her hand slips between my legs, bold and unapologetic, and I moan, loud and shameless, as she finds me wet and wanting. Julian's growl vibrates against my skin, and I can feel him hardening even more, trapped between us. It's too much, too fast, a collision of want and spite and reckless need, and I'm spinning, lost in the heat of it.

The kitchen counter digs into my hips, cold and unforgiving, but it only sharpens the pleasure. Lena's fingers tease me through the fabric, Julian's mouth sucks a bruise into my neck, and I'm trembling, caught in their orbit. It's a game now, a dangerous, delicious game, and I don't know who's winning—or if we're all about to lose.

The door's still cracked open, the party's noise seeping in, and I realize anyone could walk by, see us like this—three bodies twisted together, chasing something we can't name. The thought makes me shudder, pushes me closer to the edge, and I grab Lena's wrist, urging her on, as Julian's hands roam lower. This is my chaos, my powder keg, and it's about to explode.