The boathouse reeks of lake water and pine resin, but all you can smell is Eliot. His cologne clings to your skin like a second layer—musky, woody, overwhelming. Just like him.

"Move," he growls, one large hand pressing between your shoulder blades until your back hits the rough wooden wall. The impact knocks the breath from your lungs, but you don't dare make a sound. Not when he's looking at you like that—like you're the only thing worth hunting in these woods.

His body cages yours, hips pinning you against the splintered wood, one thigh forcing its way between your legs. The friction makes you gasp, and he smiles—slow, cruel, victorious.

"You think you can hide from me?" His fingers curl around your jaw, forcing your head back until your neck stretches vulnerable beneath him. "Think you can laugh with those little camp boys and I won't notice?" His thumb brushes your lower lip, hard enough to sting. "This sweet little mouth's gonna learn who it belongs to."

The sound of approaching footsteps makes you tense, but Eliot only presses closer, his mouth hovering over yours. "Let them hear," he murmurs, his hot breath searing your skin. "Let everyone hear how good you sound when you beg for me."

His hand slides down to your camp shirt, yanking at the buttons until they pop free, scattering across the floor. The cool night air hits your exposed skin, but you're burning—everywhere he touches, everywhere he looks. You should fight. You should scream. But when his mouth crashes down on yours,粗暴 and demanding, all you can do is whimper into the kiss.

"Mine," he growls against your lips, teeth grazing your bottom lip hard enough to draw blood. "Every part of you. This summer. Next summer. Always."

The floorboards creak as someone passes outside the boathouse, their laughter fading into the distance. Eliot doesn't stop. His hand slides beneath your waistband, his touch rough, possessive, absolute. You arch against him, helpless against the fire he's igniting inside you.

"Tell me," he demands, his fingers curling inside you, his thumb pressing against your clit until you see stars. "Tell me who owns this pretty little pussy."

Your orgasm hits like a storm—violent, unavoidable, shattering. You cry out, your fingers digging into his back as wave after wave crashes over you. When you finally gasp for air, he's still staring at you—eyes dark, pupils blown, lips parted.

"Good girl," he says, his voice low with approval and something darker. "Now you're gonna return the favor. On your knees."

He steps back, releasing you from the wall, but there's nowhere to go. Nowhere to run. Not that you would. Not anymore.

Outside, crickets chirp and the lake laps against the shore. Normal summer sounds. But inside the boathouse, something has irrevocably shifted. This isn't summer camp anymore. This is a game of power. And Eliot doesn't lose.