Just Friends

[ 1 ].

"Stop. Moving." Ghost commanded, his voice low, gruff, and demanding. Each syllable dripped with an authority that was hard to ignore.

"But I can't get comfortable," you protested, your voice softer, almost meek in comparison. You shifted again, trying to find a suitable position in his lap.

"I don't care. Just stop," Ghost continued, his voice maintaining that low, stern tone that made the hairs on the back of your neck stand up. His warm breath brushed against your sensitive skin, sending a cascade of shivers tumbling down your spine each time he exhaled. Despite his simple orders, you couldn't stop sliding down his legs. Your dress kept creeping up your thighs, revealing the delicate flesh beneath with each involuntary move.

If you'd been facing Ghost, you'd have glimpsed the shadows of desire darkening his gaze, a silent thunderstorm brewing as his eyes traced the contours of your legs. You would have caught him in a stolen moment, picturing what it would be like to bury his face in between your thighs, to taste you, to feel you writhing beneath him. His fingers twitched, longing to touch you, to feel your skin beneath his. He wished he could make you squirm and hear your moans—he wished he could tease and torment you the way you teased him.

However, the only problem was that you were not doing it intentionally. At least, that's what he assumed. After all, you were his friend. Nothing more, nothing less.

Yet, you were his guilty pleasure, a forbidden fruit he couldn't taste. You were the last thought that crossed his mind before he surrendered to sleep and the first one that greeted him when he woke up. Of course, he would never admit these feelings aloud, as if their utterance would shatter the fragile facade he had constructed. And he would certainly never confess any of this to you. Chasing girls and being in a relationship were not his top priorities; he had other more important things to focus on. He didn't want to be tied down by commitments. But it didn't stop him from fantasising about what it would be like to have you for just one night. To see you with your hands bound above your head, laying in his bed, begging him to touch you.

After all, he was only a man. A man with primal desires and urges that demanded to be satisfied. But he was also your lieutenant, your superior. Plus, there was the fact that you were significantly younger than him. So, despite the magnetic pull that you unknowingly exerted, an unseen force that drew him towards you like a moth to a flame, he had made a solemn vow to himself. He would never lose control, he would never give in...

As the vehicle jolted around another sharp turn, a grunt of dissatisfaction escaped your lips. This was the umpteenth time you had to readjust your position: an inconvenience you honestly could do without. Especially since you were growing increasingly aware of the prickling tension. Carefully, you hoisted yourself up, tugging your dress back down, which had rebelliously hitched up, revealing more than intended.

Ghost, on the other hand, was locked in a silent battle of his own. His eyes clenched shut like a fortress under siege. He took in a deep, measured breath as if diving into an ocean of calm, striving to divert his attention from the growing heat in his body. The dangerously close proximity to you was playing a tantalizing game with his self-control.

"Stop moving, Y/N," Ghost found himself repeating the same phrase he had been uttering for the past quarter of an hour. He had initially attempted to keep his hands to himself, but your constant movement and readjustments made that task increasingly difficult. Now, you could feel his palms subtly creeping up your sides until they found a resting spot at your waist. His fingers dug into your flesh, providing a sense of stability amid the chaotic drive.

"I can't. I keep slipping," you sighed in response, the frustration apparent in your tone. His hands, however, remained steadfast on your waist, anchoring you in his lap.