Burning Desire

Elliot

I was losing it.

The scotch in my glass swirled as I tilted it, staring at the amber liquid like it held the answers to all my problems. The warm burn was supposed to drown the thoughts I couldn’t shake—the memory of her, of Susan, in my bed. Her voice, her scent, the way she looked at me before melting into my touch.

A mistake, she’d called it.

The very word churned in my chest like a twisted blade. If it was such a mistake, why couldn’t I stop thinking about her? Why couldn’t I get her out of my head?

I tipped the glass to my lips, draining it in one go. The alcohol barely numbed the ache. I’d tried everything to distract myself this past week—work, late nights, even moving her office to another floor. I thought space would give me clarity, would make her absence easier to bear.

It hadn’t.

I wanted her.

Not just in the fleeting, surface way I’d wanted women before. This was different. It was consuming. Primal. The things I wanted to do to her… God, they were filthy.

I closed my eyes, gripping the edge of the kitchen counter.

I wanted to feel her again, pinned beneath me, writhing. I wanted to hear her whisper my name, breathless and needy, as I kissed every inch of her. I wanted to claim her in ways that would leave no doubt in her mind who she belonged to.

But none of that was going to happen.

Because I’d told myself I’d give her space. I’d pushed her away on purpose, knowing she needed time to come to terms with whatever this thing between us was.

But the distance wasn’t working.

The scotch wasn’t working.

And I was a goddamn fool for thinking it would.

The knock on the door startled me, pulling me from my thoughts.

I frowned, glancing at the clock. It was late—well past midnight. Who the hell would be at my door at this hour?

Setting the glass down, I moved to the door, my footsteps heavy against the hardwood floor. I swung it open, already preparing to send whoever it was on their way.

And froze.

Susan.

She was standing there, her hair slightly disheveled, her cheeks flushed like she’d run all the way here. Her eyes met mine, wide and glistening, and for a moment, I thought I was imagining things.

But then she spoke.

“Elliot,” she whispered, her voice barely audible over the pounding in my chest.

Before I could respond, before I could ask what she was doing here, she closed the distance between us.

Her hands found my face, her fingers trembling as they slid into my hair, and then her lips were on mine.

The kiss was hungry. Desperate.

It wasn’t the soft, tentative kiss of someone testing the waters—it was raw and consuming, like she’d been holding herself back for far too long and couldn’t stand it anymore.

I barely had time to register what was happening before I was kissing her back, my hands flying to her waist and pulling her against me.

She tasted like wine and something sweeter, something uniquely Susan. My mind spun as her tongue slipped past my lips, tangling with mine.

I groaned into her mouth, my body igniting with a need I’d been trying to suppress all week. She pressed herself closer, her curves molding against me, and I felt the last shred of my self-control snap.

I broke the kiss, my breathing ragged as I looked down at her. “Susan,” I managed, my voice hoarse. “What are you doing?”

Her eyes met mine, dark and stormy. “I don’t know,” she admitted, her fingers tightening in my hair. “I just… I can’t stop thinking about you.”

Her words hit me like a freight train, and before I could respond, she was kissing me again, her hands roaming over my chest, her touch igniting every nerve ending in my body.

I didn’t fight it.

I couldn’t.

I pulled her inside, kicking the door shut behind us, and pressed her against it. Her gasp sent a thrill through me, and I captured her lips again, my hands sliding up her sides.

She was wearing a thin blouse, and it did little to hide the softness of her body beneath my touch. My fingers found the hem, slipping underneath to feel her skin, warm and smooth.

She moaned against my lips, her body arching into mine, and I felt my restraint slipping further.

“Do you have any idea what you’re doing to me?” I murmured against her neck, my lips trailing down to the hollow of her throat.

“Show me,” she whispered, her voice trembling with need.

God, how could I resist her?

We didn’t make it far.

The living room was as good a place as any, and I guided her to the couch, lowering her onto it with a gentleness that belied the fire raging inside me.

Her blouse was the first to go, the fabric sliding from her shoulders to reveal her bare skin. My lips followed, tracing every inch of her as she writhed beneath me, her hands clutching at my back.

I wanted to take my time, to savor her, but the urgency between us was too great.

Her fingers tugged at my shirt, pulling it over my head, and then her hands were on me, exploring, caressing.

I kissed her again, hard and demanding, and she responded with equal fervor, her nails digging into my skin.

I lost myself in her—her taste, her touch, the way she whispered my name like it was the only word that mattered.

The night blurred into a haze of heat and desire, of whispered words and gasps of pleasure.

By the time we finally collapsed onto the couch, tangled together and utterly spent, I knew one thing for certain.

I was hers.

Completely.

Here’s Susan’s perspective, starting from the moment she decided to confront Elliot. I'll make it passionate, detailed, and thoroughly steamy.

****

Susan

I don’t know what possessed me to leave my apartment.

I had already drafted the text a dozen times. “We need to talk.” Short, direct, and as emotionless as I could manage. But each time my thumb hovered over the send button, I hesitated. It wasn’t enough. The weight of everything I’d been feeling this past week couldn’t be summed up in a few words on a screen.

The truth was, I missed him.

I hated admitting it, even to myself. He’d been a distraction, an annoyance—hell, even a complication I didn’t need in my life. But Elliot Prescott was also impossible to ignore. And now, after everything we’d been through, I couldn’t stop thinking about him.

About the way he kissed me. The way he touched me. The way he made me feel like I was the only person in the world who mattered.

And so, instead of texting, I grabbed my coat, threw it over my shoulders, and stormed out into the night.

The elevator ride to his apartment felt like an eternity.

With every floor that passed, my pulse quickened. By the time I reached his door, my hands were trembling, my breath uneven.

I knocked before I could change my mind.

The door opened, and there he was.

Elliot Prescott, in the flesh.

His hair was slightly messy, his shirt unbuttoned at the collar, revealing just a hint of his chest. His eyes, though slightly bloodshot, still held that piercing intensity that made my stomach flutter.

“Susan?” His voice was low, almost hoarse.

I didn’t respond. I couldn’t.

Before I could overthink it, I closed the distance between us, grabbed the front of his shirt, and pulled him down into a kiss.

The moment our lips touched, it was like a dam broke inside me.

The kiss was wild, unrestrained—a collision of need and frustration and longing that had been building for far too long. His hands found my waist, gripping me tightly as he kissed me back, his lips rough and demanding.

I didn’t care about the consequences. I didn’t care about tomorrow.

All I cared about was him.

He pulled me inside, slamming the door shut behind us, and pressed me against it.

My back hit the wood, but I barely felt it. All I could focus on was the way his mouth moved against mine, the way his hands roamed over my body, igniting every nerve ending in their wake.

His fingers found the buttons of my coat, undoing them with an urgency that matched my own. The coat fell to the floor, forgotten, as his hands slid up my sides, pulling me closer.

“Do you have any idea what you’re doing to me?” he murmured against my lips, his voice rough with need.

I didn’t answer. Instead, I reached for his shirt, tugging it over his head and letting it fall to the floor. My hands traced the planes of his chest, the hard muscles beneath my fingertips sending a thrill through me.

Somehow, we made it to the living room.

He guided me to the couch, his hands never leaving my body, and lowered me onto it with a tenderness that contrasted the fire between us.

His lips found my neck, trailing hot, open-mouthed kisses down to my collarbone. My blouse was the next to go, the fabric slipping from my shoulders to reveal my bare skin.

“God, you’re beautiful,” he whispered, his voice thick with desire.

Heat pooled in my core at his words, and I arched into him, my hands tangling in his hair as his mouth moved lower.

His lips brushed over the swell of my breast, his tongue flicking out to tease me through the thin fabric of my bra. I gasped, my nails digging into his shoulders, and he responded by sliding the strap of my bra down, exposing my breasts to him.

What followed was a blur of sensation—of lips and tongues and hands exploring every inch of each other.

He was everywhere, his touch setting me on fire, his mouth drawing sounds from me that I didn’t recognize as my own.

He made me feel things I hadn’t felt in years—things I didn’t know I was capable of feeling.

And when he finally thrust into my already wet pussy, it was like everything else faded away.

There was only us.

The rest of the night was a haze of pleasure and passion, of whispered words and stolen kisses, of bodies moving together in perfect sync.

By the time we finally collapsed onto the couch, tangled together and utterly spent, I knew one thing for certain.

I was in trouble.

Because Elliot Prescott wasn’t just a mistake.

He was my undoing.