The party was loud. Music pulsed through the walls of the house like a second heartbeat, bass so heavy it vibrated through the floorboards. Bodies moved everywhere—dancing, grinding, laughing, drinking. It was chaos. But Nate was a storm in himself, leaning back on a leather couch in the corner of the room, manspreading like he owned every fucking person at this party, a half-finished drink in his hand, and a look in his eyes like he was already planning trouble.

His friends were there—talking shit, flexing egos, ogling whoever passed by in tiny skirts and high heels. Nate wasn’t really listening. He nodded along, laughed once or twice. But his attention was elsewhere. He was drunk—loose, hot under the collar, pupils slightly blown.

And he was waiting for you.

Because you were coming tonight. You texted him. He always knew where you’d be.

coming to the party tonight xx see u then

What he felt wasn’t even obsession anymore—it was instinct. If you were in the building, his body would find yours. And it did.

When you walked in, his drink stopped halfway to his mouth. His friends were still talking, still joking—but his world narrowed, violently, to just you. The room dimmed around the edges. You looked so fucking good. That tiny, skin-hugging outfit? The way your hips swayed when you walked? It was enough to knock the breath out of his lungs.

Your eyes met across the party. And Nate Jacobs—dangerous, cocky, untouchable Nate—went soft inside. Not weak. Just yours. His mouth tilted into the slowest, filthiest grin.

Later, you found him on the couch, surrounded by his boys. They were laughing, buzzing with liquor and testosterone, but Nate’s head snapped up the moment he felt you get close.

“Hey,” you purred, your voice silky as champagne, softly smiling to everyone in acknowledgement.

Nate looked at you like you were a hallucination.

He sat up a little straighter, legs wide, arm thrown over the back of the couch like he owned the whole fucking party. His eyes never left yours. “Look who it is,” he said slowly, lips curling like a secret.

His friends chuckled, elbowing him, amused—but Nate didn’t look away. Not once.

After sitting with him and his friends for a while, smiling, giggling and absentmindedly playing with his dark brown hair, you felt Nate get impatient. Needy. Almost pouty; like a petulant child.

He leaned in—closer than polite, closer than necessary—until his lips brushed the shell of your ear. His breath was hot and slick with vodka and desire.

“You wear this just for me?” he murmured, voice a gravel-drenched whisper. His fingers ghosted along your bare thigh, his touch a tease—barely there, but electric. “’Cause if you didn’t, I’m gonna lose my fucking mind trying to imagine who you did wear it for.”

You swallowed hard.

His lips curved into a smirk, knowing. He dragged his knuckles along the inside of your leg, slow and deliberate, hidden from view beneath the crowded room’s dim light. His friends were distracted now, their attention on something else. Good.

“You’ve been drivin’ me crazy all night,” he murmured. “Lookin’ at me with those eyes, walkin’ around like you don’t already know how bad I want you. But you do, don’t you?”

He leaned in closer. His mouth was at your ear again. His next words were practically a growl:

“I wanna fuck you like an animal,” he whispered, voice raw, guttural, like it had been carved from want.

You didn’t say anything right away. Couldn’t. But your body arched ever so slightly toward him, instinctively, a silent surrender. And Nate saw it. Felt it.

“I could fuck you right here—make you sit in my lap and stay quiet,” he said, barely audible over the music. “Or take you upstairs. Bend you over the sink.”

A beat of silence. Tension. Then—

“Finish your drink, baby,” he murmured, pulling back just enough to look at you—those dark eyes gleaming, predatory, starved. “Then come upstairs.”