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Duran Duran turns into Depeche Mode, and guys are jumping, shoving, bumping into each other from all sides in the dark. An occasional drunk girl gets bounced around in the mix, laughing or shrieking depending on how much she’s had to drink.

I’m sweating. The air is thick and hot, and I can barely see two feet in front of me.

I’d rather be upstairs in Lucien’s room, where it’s quiet and we can be alone.

Suddenly, fingers slip under the hem of my shirt. I stay completely still, suspended. The fingers walk up my abs slowly, until Lucien’s entire hand is splayed across my chest. My heart is pounding so hard that I’m sure he can feel it. I glance around, terrified someone will see. That someone will notice the way his hand is moving under my shirt, the way his body is pressed against my back. But no one is looking. No one can see anything in the dim red light. Lucien’s fingers find my nipple and pinch. I gasp, my mouth falling open, and my dick goes hard so fast it’s obscene, an immediate, involuntary response that reveals his power over me.

He leans in close. His breath on my neck tickles the little hairs below my hairline, but he doesn’t kiss me. He stands, hovering close, taking in my reaction, breathing me in. Neither of us says anything. It’s too loud to hear ourselves anyway. I turn my head slightly, enough to see his face in the red light. His dark brows are drawn together in arousal. I’m completely consumed by the image of him like this. Half in shadow, half in red light. My dick is so hard it hurts.

Lucien’s hand wraps around mine, and he pulls me through the crowd until we’re at the stairs. We take them two at a time, racing up to the second floor.

His room is at the end of the hall, a corner room with a heavy wooden door.

He pulls me inside and locks it behind us.

“Take off your clothes,” he says.

I hesitate, glancing at the door. “The house is full of people.”

“The door is locked.” He steps closer, his eyes steely and hungry. “It’s okay.”

We undress quickly, fumbling with buttons and zippers, and then we’re on each other.

The kiss is feral, uncontrolled. I grab his hair and pull, and he does the same to me, tilting my head back so far my neck is exposed. He bites down my throat, little nips that make me gasp, and I feel like I’m going to lose my mind.

The bass from downstairs thrums through the floor, vibrating up through the bed frame. I can hear muffled shouts, laughter, the chaos of the party continuing without us. We’re right above them. Right fucking above them, but Lucien’s mouth is on my throat, and I don’t care. I don’t care who hears us.

He pushes me onto the bed, and I fall back against the soft bedding.

Lucien crawls over me, his mouth moving across my chest. He bites my pecs, my abs, leaving little marks that sting and burn in the best way. The heat of his mouth contrasts with the cool air of the room. I’m suddenly sensitive to everything, the scratch of his stubble against my skin, the wet heat of his tongue, the demanding way his hands grip my hips.

When he reaches my dick, he pauses. His gray eyes take in every inch. He kisses the clipped dark patch of hair just above my length, and I nearly come right then.

Oh God. Oh fuck.

And then his mouth is on me. I moan, loud and shameless, because I’m drunk: on alcohol, on him, on what he does to me. Lucien’s tongue is doing something incredible, swirling around my tip, and I can’t think about anything else. Nothing matters anymore. Not Liam. Not the party downstairs. Not the fact that we’re supposed to be keeping this a secret.

He sucks and tugs with his lips and taunts me with his tongue. Every time I feel close, every time I’m right on the edge, he stops.

The denial feels so good. My thighs tremble around his face as he works me over. Sweat beads on my forehead and chest. I’m nothing but sensation, nothing but vibrating need.

He squeezes the base of my dick hard, holding me back, and I make a sound that’s half whimper, half growl.

“Lucien, please⁠—”

He doesn’t answer. Just keeps going, keeps teasing, keeps controlling my body like he owns it. And fuck, I love it. I love how he knows exactly what I need. How he can read every twitch, every gasp, every desperate thrust of my hips.

There’s something about the way he decides when I’m allowed to feel good, when I’m allowed to come, that drives me crazy. He’s paying attention to every single part of me because I’m his. The thought should scare me. Should make me pull away, reassert control, prove I’m not just some toy for him to play with. But it doesn’t. It makes me harder.

He releases me, and my cock smacks my stomach with a slap.

“Fuck my mouth, baby,” he says, looking into my eyes.

“What?” I want to, but I’m nervous because I don’t want to hurt him.

“Come on, you won’t hurt me. I can take it.”

I nod. He takes me to the back of his throat and moans around me. The deep, satisfied sound vibrates through my entire length and into my balls. I grip his hair with my fingers, then I lift my hips and thrust into his mouth as he continues to moan. The sound of his pleasure, the feeling of him wanting this, has me riding harder.