Текст книги "After Tonight "

Автор книги: Annie Kelly

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Текущая страница: 7 (всего у книги 14 страниц)

And as I say it, I realize how true it is. I don’t want to go anywhere else—not when I just proved I can stand up for myself, even in the face of someone much larger and scarier than me.

“Are you sure?” My principal looks skeptical and I smile at him.

“I am—although, I have to tell you that I’m not particularly comfortable with J. D. being in my class now.”

Mr. Weathersby gives me a tight smile. “He’s actually been suspended for the semester. So, you’ll have long completed your student teaching by the time he’s back in the building.”

“You can’t expel for that?” I ask. “Drug possession, I mean?”

He sighs. “No, not technically. Once he’s fulfilled any legal obligations, he’s as eligible for an education as anyone else.”

I shake my head. “Well, I appreciate the fact that I won’t have to teach him, despite the circumstances.”

“And you’re sure you feel comfortable finishing out the remainder of your time here?” Mr. Weathersby asks. He looks a little worried and I smile at him.

“I’m absolutely sure that I’m comfortable, sir.”

“Wonderful.” He stands then and reaches out a hand to shake mine. “I’m quite impressed with your resilience, Hyacinth, I have to say. Not many people would put up with the hijinks you’ve had to endure. You’re going to be an excellent educator.”

His compliment makes me almost glow and, considering the disappointment I’d seen on his face after the fight last week, I can’t help but revel in his positive attention now.

But I just shrug and smile, trying to look nonchalant.

“What can I say, Mr. Weathersby,” I quip. “I guess I just like a challenge.”

Chapter Nine

What Lies Beneath

“So, I was thinking you could spend detention today making yourself useful.”

I plunk a large stack of photocopied handouts in front of Smith, then set the three-hole punch on the desk next to him. He raises a tawny brow at me, but says nothing. I almost expected a little more pushback, but he’s quiet this afternoon. Frankly, I don’t know what to say to him anyway.

As he works, I settle back down at my desk and start grading. The silence is punctuated with the random creak of my desk chair when I move and Smith’s methodical press and release of the hole punch. I can almost lose myself in the mundaneness of this moment. I can almost forget about what happened this morning.

You should thank him. He might have saved you from something awful.

From under my lashes, I watch Smith shuffle the papers into neat stacks, then set them aside. I consider my words carefully before I actually say them.

“I wanted to tell you that I appreciate what you did this morning. I don’t know what would have happened if you hadn’t been there.”

I shudder at the thought of J. D.’s hands on my face again.

Smith looks up at me, then shrugs.

“Right place, right time, I guess.”

I narrow my eyes. “How did you know I was there anyway?”

He shrugs again.

“I didn’t—I heard J. D. through the wall when I walked by, then saw those other two asshats bolt out the door. Like I said, right place, right time.”

“Right. Well, I just want you to know that I’m grateful.”

I push off my desk and walk toward the board, trying to focus on erasing my notes from third period. I feel like if I look back at him now, he’ll be able to see right through my gratitude, right through my shirt to my wildly beating heart, which lately seems to only have one speed around Smith—fast and hard.

That pounding pulse must be the reason I don’t hear him stand up or walk toward me. I don’t hear him at all, in fact, until he whispers, “I can take care of that” into my ear.

And then his hand slides up my bare arm, from my elbow to my wrist. Gently, he removes the eraser from my grip, holding my hand in his a beat too long before moving to take over. I let my eyes flutter shut for a second, then I force myself to step away from him.

He’s facing the chalkboard, so I can’t see his expression when he says, “I don’t want to think about what would have happened if I hadn’t been there this morning.”

I feel a little part of me slow down long enough to melt. I’m just hoping that part isn’t my heart.

I shuffle back over to my desk chair, then dive back into grading, but the words are blurring into meaningless gibberish. Instead, my peripheral vision focuses on Smith’s strong, tan arms as they arc and sweep the eraser over the rest of the board. When he moves closer, I can see the tendons beneath his skin. I squint a little at the tattoo peeking out from under his rolled-up shirtsleeve.

“Is that a Kerouac quote?”

Smith glances at his arm, then back at me.

“Yeah. It’s from On the Road.”

“‘There was nowhere to go but everywhere, keep rolling under the stars,’” I say, half reading his tattoo and half reciting it from memory. Smith studies me then, and it’s my turn to shrug.

“It’s a personal favorite,” I say.

“Me, too. But my dad’s actually the one who picked it out for me.”

I glance back at the tattoo, then up into Smith’s eyes. They look far away, and a small smile plays at his lips.

“Are you close?”

“With my dad?”

I nod and he shrugs. “Not particularly. Not since he got locked up again.”

I blink at him. “Oh. Yeah. I guess that would change things.”

Smith scrubs a hand over his face, then shrugs. “It’s the same old story, you know? My mom has shitty taste in men and chose to have a son with someone who already had a record for assault and grand larceny.”

“Wow.”

“Yeah. Wow. So, he’s been in and out of jail my whole life. He’s doing a nickel now for breaking and entering. I haven’t seen him in two years.”

I chew on the interior of my bottom lip. “That sucks, Smith. I’m so sorry.”

He shrugs.

“It’s all right. You learn to be scrappy when you’ve got one parent locked up and the other one at the bar every night. I made do.”

“So, was it just you in the house? I mean, did you have siblings or anything?”

He nods. “A brother. He’s older. Got outta the house as soon as he could and I didn’t blame him one bit. I did the same thing the second I could.”

“Do you still live with your mom?”

Smith picks up a piece of chalk and turns it over in his hands. “Not really. I don’t see a whole lot of her anymore. She’s got her own life, I guess. I’ve got mine.”

I narrow my eyes a bit. “And your life includes being buddies with J. D. Fenton.”

He grins, then shrugs. “I mean, I just clocked him, so I dunno how great of friends we’ll be now. But, yeah. I met J. D. a while back when we were both stuck in a juvie program.”

His expression sobers then and he looks at me intently.

“Look, regardless of anything else, what he pulled today was bullshit and totally outta line. I know that you already know this but, to be clear, I’d never let anything like that happen to you. As long as I’ve got my finger on the pulse of this place, I can try to keep track of shit to make sure you don’t involved.”

For a long moment, I blink at him. Then I shake my head.

“It’s just an act, isn’t it?”

He frowns. “What’s an act?”

I sort of gesture at him, as though attempting to encompass all he is in one simple sweep of my hand.

“This—this person you’re pretending to be. I thought it was the sweet side of you that was all for show. That guy at the bar—the one who talked to me and teased me, the one who made me laugh and made sure I got home safe—I thought maybe that guy was a façade you’d managed to create to get women. But now I think it’s the opposite—I think that might actually be who you really are.”

Smith sort of shrugs, then gives me a self-deprecating smile. “I’m not perfect. I’ve had my own brushes with the law. I mean, I’m here, aren’t I?”

“Brushes involving what?”

He shrugs. “Theft. Some B and E. Nothing violent.”

“Hmm.” I tilt my head to one side as I regard him. “I don’t know. I mean, sure, you made some mistakes. But you’re clearly learning from them. You’re clearly growing.”

Smith grins at that. “Maybe. Just don’t tell anyone—or you’ll ruin my rep.”

I roll my eyes, but I can’t help but grin up at him. These moments with him, the ones when we’re looking into each other’s eyes, just seem frozen. Or, more accurately, I want to freeze them. To stop them in their tracks and keep them from disappearing.

And that’s when Jeremy Christopher comes charging into my room.

“Hiya—” He stops in the doorway and looks from me to Smith. “Oh—I’m sorry. I didn’t realize you were holding detention.”

I shake my head. “It’s fine. Come on in.”

His face is full of concern as he approaches my desk.

“I just heard about what happened this morning. Are you all right?”

My eyes flick up at Smith, who’s focused on erasing the board again. I give Jeremy what I hope is a reassuring smile.

“I’m fine. Never a dull moment around here, I guess.”

He’s wearing an incredulous expression. “I can’t believe it—I mean, we deal with rough stuff around here all the time, but that’s over the top.”

He leans a little closer to me and lowers his voice.

“Between you and me, I think that J. D. kid is a total thug. I’m glad he’s outta here for a while.”

“Yeah, so am I.”

Jeremy straightens then, letting his eyes land on Smith. “Well,” he says slowly, “if you need anything—anything at all, you know where to find me.”

“Thanks,” I say, nodding. “I really appreciate that. But, I promise I’m fine.” He rocks back on his heels a bit, like he’s trying to decide on his next move. After standing there a beat longer than necessary, he gives a little shrug.

“Well, I’ll see you tomorrow then, I guess.”

“Sure.” I smile up at him. “Thanks, Jeremy.”

He wanders back out of my classroom, leaving a little more slowly than he came. Once he’s past my door and out of sight, I look back down at my quizzes, feeling a little warm around my collar.

Smith clears his throat. When I look up at him, he’s got his arms crossed and he’s sort of smirking.

“What?”

He chuckles a little, then sets down the eraser and comes around to the front of my desk, pulling a nearby chair along behind him. When he sits down, it almost feels as though we’re sitting across a dinner table from each other. Almost as though we’re on a date.

“Someone has an admirer.”

I roll my eyes. “He was just being nice.”

“Bullshit.”

I narrow my eyes at him. “Are you trying to annoy me or was there something you needed?”

“Maybe.” His smile widens. Man, he has great teeth.

“Can you get to it, then?”

“I want to know who your favorite author is.”

I raise my eyebrows. “Why?”

“Because I’m curious. And because you’re an English teacher, or you’re going to be. You’ve gotta inspire your students by showing them who inspires you.”

I lift a brow. “What is this—the Asher School for Meaningful Teaching?”

He shrugs.

“Something like that.” Then he winks. “The tests are hard, but I never give homework.”

I shake my head.

“Okay, well—I don’t think I can answer the favorite author question. Favorite book, though? That I can do.”

“Yeah?” He leans back in his chair, the corner of his mouth quirking up. “Shoot.”

“Actually, I can do you one better.”

I reach down into my desk drawer and pull out my bag. Smith eyes me as I open the back zippered section and dig out a worn paperback. I set it down in front of him and he leans in to inspect it.

“Bram Stoker’s Dracula,” he reads aloud, then looks up at me. His gaze is a cross between surprised and impressed. “I never took you for one of those Twilight groupies.”

“Please.” I roll my eyes. “This isn’t about vampires—well, it’s not just about vampires. It’s about love and suspicion. It’s about not understanding things beyond our capacity for reason, then condemning them. It’s about humanity—being human—not the opposite.”

Smith presses a finger to his mouth and I have to force myself not to lick my lips. I don’t know if it’s a nervous response or if focusing on his mouth just gives my tongue ideas of its own.

“So, can I borrow it?” he asks.

I blink at him. “Borrow what?”

He chuckles. “The book—can I borrow the book?”

“Oh.” I bite my lip and look down at the paperback. “Um—sure. If you promise to return it.”

Then, before I can even blink, Smith reaches out and cups my chin. Gently, he uses his thumb to pull on the skin below my bottom lip.

“Don’t do that.”

His voice is gruff. I just stare at him.

“Do what?”

My voice is almost unrecognizable to my own ears—it’s breathy, but heavy, like I’ve been running for far too long and can barely manage to speak.

“Don’t bite your lip.” Smith’s eyes flash as he meets my gaze. “Unless you’re trying to torture me on purpose.”

I manage to maintain eye contact, even though it’s almost impossible to do. I take a long, slow breath, then shake my head.

“Smith, you’re making this really hard for me.”

I try to keep my tone even and firm.

“You’re in this class and we have to work together, but spending time alone with you—it’s clearly a bad idea. We should just say you’ve served your detentions and move on.”

He sighs and leans back in his chair.

“You’re right.”

I am? Is this him admitting he’s as rattled by me as I am by him?

“Okay, then. I’ll just tell Mr. Weathersby that you’ve served your time. Hey, speaking of time—where were you for class this morning? You missed all of act two.”

For a second, he looks caught off guard by the question.

“Oh—I had an appointment. Dentist,” he says.

“Okay, well, you should take a book home.”

I stand and walk over to the shelf to grab a copy of Hamlet. When I turn back around, I see my copy of Dracula still sitting on my desk. Impulsively, I grab it and hand both books to him. He looks down at my paperback, then back up at me.

“Are you sure?”

“Of course.” I shrug. “Don’t you think you should broaden your definition of vampire-themed literature?”

Smith chuckles and shakes his head, tucking both books under his arm. His eyes scan my face briefly. Without another word, he turns and saunters out of the room.

I take a deep breath.

Apparently, I’d forgotten to breathe in the last minute.

Again.

Why? Why am I still so affected by this man?

This whole situation is beyond frustrating. Not only am I crossing lines that I have no business to cross, but I’m also losing control of my own body. The heart pounding, the breath catching, the goose bumps, the blushing—all of those reflexes aren’t following the standard operating procedure for the Hyacinth Hendricks that I’ve always been. The girl I’ve always been? She’s rational. She’s reasonable. When it comes to boyfriends, she likes things simple. Comfortable. She likes to cuddle under a blanket and watch late-night talk shows. She likes cooking pasta dinners on Sundays. She likes the beautiful monotony of a long-term relationship.

Or, at least I thought she did. Now I’m not so sure. Now I’m wondering if the Hyacinth I’ve always been is the kind of girl who needs sparks. Who needs to speak her mind and feel comfortable enough to push back when she’s being challenged.

The kind of girl who turns banter into foreplay.

The kind of girl who wants tough love in all its forms.

The kind of girl who doesn’t take the easy way out.

***

On Thursday evening, I decide that I need something other than dry turkey and cafeteria-style seating for dinner. Bridget is at the front desk when I get to Holly Fields, and she grins at me when I get through the door.

“Hey, stranger!” she says, coming around the side to wrap me in a big Bridget-style bear hug. Football linebackers have nothing on her.

“Listen, I want to spring Dad for dinner. Will that be a problem?”

Bridget walks back around to the other side of the desk. She glances over the night chart on the wall, then looks back at me.

“He’s had his night meds already, so he’s good to go. Just no alcohol, alright?”

“You got it.”

“Where are you gonna take him?”

I grin. “I was thinking Dino’s, unless you’ve got a better suggestion.”

Bridget snorts. “There is no better suggestion than Dino’s—it may be a little rough around the edges, but damn they can make a hamburger.”

“You got that right.”

I practically skip down the hall at the idea of a big fat juicy non-turkey burger.

“Hey, princess,” Dad says when I make it to his room. “Check it out!”

He’s staring up at the TV, watching some guy pull something enormous, terrifying, and covered in scales out of the ocean on one of those Discovery Channel shows. I make a face at him.

“That’s gross, Daddy. Turn it off and get yourself ready. We’re busting outta this place tonight.”

He frowns and smooths a pale hand over his jeans.

“What do you mean?”

“I mean,” I say, leaning over to kiss his cheek, “that I am taking you to Dino’s for a real hamburger and fresh-cut fries and some hockey or basketball or whatever sports game is on right now in the bar.”

Dad seems genuinely excited about leaving Holly Fields, but I can read him well enough to see the nerves that are playing on the surface. Once I’ve gotten him settled in Carson’s passenger seat and I’ve packed up the wheelchair in the back, I turn to face him from the driver’s side.

“Daddy—it’s just dinner. We’ll only be ten minutes away. And you’ve already had your meds. I promise it’ll be okay.”

Once, when he still lived at home, my dad had admitted that his biggest fear was that he’d have another stroke, or a heart attack, or something else in front of me and that I’d have to deal with it on my own. It was one of the catalysts for him moving to Holly Fields, that fear of burdening me. I hate that he wants to protect me so fiercely—yet, I love it, too. It’s what makes him the Papa Bear he’s always been. My protector.

Now that he’s bound to a chair, though, I think he feels less and less fierce than he used to. It’s my job to prove the opposite—starting with a big dose of red meat to satisfy his inner carnivore.

Dino’s is a dive in every sense of the word—shitty tables, shittier booths, and the best burgers in the entire Baltimore area. People swear by their wings, too, but I’m a burger and fries kind of girl, just like my dad. We both order “The Traditional”—a double cheeseburger with the works—and an extra-large basket of fries to share. While we wait, I sip a Sam Adams and watch Dad’s focus bounce from TV to TV as he keeps tabs on the different games airing. I know he misses coming to sports bars and watching games with friends. I hate that even the simple joys of his life are lost to heart monitors and physical therapy and mandatory blood sugar screenings.

“So, how’s the student teaching, princess?” Dad asks, tugging at the collar of his shirt. “You haven’t said much about it in the last few visits.”

I shrug just as our server plunks down a basket of French fries the size of a shoebox on the table in front of us. I busy myself shaking on some malt vinegar.

“It’s okay,” I finally say. “There’s a lot of grading—if I give them an assignment, the students pretty much won’t do it at all unless they know there’s a benefit to their grade.”

“Got a lot of slackers, do ya?”

“I wouldn’t say that, necessarily—they just don’t want to work any harder than they absolutely have to.”

Dad snags a fry and reaches for the ketchup on the table. I thank the universe for small favors when I see it’s a squeeze bottle. Dad seems pleased with himself when he can squirt his own little puddle and dip right into it. Little victories feel huge lately—for both of us, I guess.

“Well, fancy meeting you here, Miss Hendricks.”

I look up to see Officer Rains towering above me, looking a little less officer and a lot more relaxed. He’s wearing khakis and a T-shirt, along with a baseball cap, and his face is practically unidentifiable with a wide smile spread across it. I realize for the first time that he’s probably not that old—late twenties maybe.

“Wow—hi. I, uh, didn’t expect to see anyone from school here.”

Officer Rains lifts a brow at me. “Well, at a place like Dino’s, I wouldn’t expect to be seeing you here, either.”

“Right.” I gesture between him and Dad. “Um, this is my dad. Dad—Officer Rains works at Franklin with me. He’s the school resource officer.”

Dad reaches out a hand.

“Gary Hendricks,” he says, smiling up at him. “Should I be worried that my daughter is rubbing elbows with a police officer?”

Rains laughs, then shakes his head. “Nah, she’s a good egg. She’s certainly managing to hold her own, sir.”

I feel myself stiffen. I hadn’t told Dad about the altercation with J. D., not to mention the fight in my classroom, or the gun in the hallway. And the last thing I want to do is tell him now.

“Yo, Eric—are we eating or what?” a voice says from behind Rains. I glance back over his shoulder, then suck in a sharp breath.

Smith is standing with his arms crossed over his chest. He isn’t looking at me, but at the police officer in front of me, who is half glaring at him.

“Forgive Smith,” Officer Rains says with a tight smile. “He doesn’t have the best manners.”

Smith snorts a laugh. “Whatever—you’re just mad that I’m the better-looking brother. That, and Mom loves me best.”

Brother?

Smith then lets his gaze travel from Rains to me. His eyes immediately widen and his mouth pops open. Slowly, his expression morphs from shocked to something like pleased.

“Well, Miss Hendricks,” he drawls. “I have to say Dino’s is probably about the last place I’d expect to see my English teacher.”

I give him a tight smile. “Your brother just said the same thing.”

Next to me, Dad is looking back and forth between me and Smith.

“Is this one of your students?” he asks.

I want to groan. Or lie. But I can’t do either. So, I make the introductions instead.

“Smith, this is my father, Gary Hendricks. Dad, Smith is in one of my senior English classes.”

Dad scoots his wheelchair out, then maneuvers himself over to shake Smith’s hand. I see Smith’s eyes flick over the wheelchair, then back up to Dad’s face.

“It’s great to meet you, sir,” he says. He sounds unexpectedly genuine. “Your daughter is one of the best teachers I’ve ever had.”

I sort of blink at him, but Dad is beaming now.

“I have no doubt that’s true, son,” Dad says.

“Right—well, it was great to meet you,” Officer Rains says. “We better put in our burger order before we miss out on the Happy Hour special.”

Smith snorts at his brother.

“Speak for yourself. Only a sadist brings his younger brother to a bar that doesn’t accept his fake ID.”

“And only an idiot talks about his fake ID to his cop brother,” Rains growls.

Smith chuckles at that, then nods at Dad. “Nice to meet you, sir.”

His eyes flick over to me before he turns around. I watch as they walk away, feeling frozen in place. When our burgers arrive moments later, I try to focus on inhaling my food and calming my brain enough to make sense of the facts.

Officer Rains is Smith’s older brother.

Smith is my student.

What starts as a niggling idea begins to evolve into an implosion in my brain.

Could Smith have told Rains about us?

I listen with feigned interest as Dad starts telling me about a new resident at Holly Fields who he thinks is sweet on Wyatt. Really, though, I’m watching Rains and Smith in my periphery—so when Smith pulls a pack of cigarettes out of his pocket and heads for the door, I count to sixty before making an excuse to go to the car.

“I’ll be right back,” I say to Dad, patting his shoulder. “I just want to make sure I turned off my headlights.”

I practically sprint outside. It’s gotten surprisingly cold in the last hour, and I rub my arms with both hands as peer out into the dark parking lot. I can’t see Smith, or anything else, for that matter, save a handful of cars.

“So what exactly is a nice girl like you doing in a fucking dive like this?”

Without any street lamps, I still can’t see him all that well, but the glowing orange tip of his cigarette clues me in to where he’s leaning up against the side of the restaurant. I don’t move any closer, but I wrap my arms tighter around myself, as though holding my body together. As though caging my heart deep inside myself.

“My dad loves burgers,” I say, trying to keep my voice steady. “Dino’s has the best.”

He pauses for a second. I can hear him taking a deep drag, then exhale hard.

“So, your dad’s in a wheelchair,” he says.

“So, Officer Rains is your brother,” I shoot back.

He steps forward then, and I can see him a little better now as my eyes adjust to the light, or lack thereof. For a long moment, the only sound around us is the sparse traffic and the hum of the restaurant’s inner workings.

“Look,” I finally sigh, digging my frozen hands into my pockets. “I have to ask.”

Smith frowns. “Ask what?”

“If your brother knows.”

He blinks at me. “If he knows what?”

I really want to punch him right now. The frustration and fear welling up inside me feels like it’s about to erupt. I don’t understand how Smith can’t see that the stakes are incredibly high here for me. I could lose my potential employment. My livelihood. My future. I don’t have anyone taking care of me—my dad isn’t capable anymore and, let’s face it, Brett was never capable of taking care of anyone but himself.

I can’t lose my career over this. Over him.

But, before I can respond, Smith takes another step toward me and, this time, I can see his face well enough to know this question irritates him.

“If he knows what?” he repeats, his voice a raspy drawl. I wonder if it’s from smoking or something else.

“Stop being coy, and just tell me. Do I have anything to worry about my job when it comes to your brother?”

The gravel shifts beneath his feet and he wraps one hand hard around my wrist. I gasp at the contact, preparing to wrench myself away from him, but Smith is far stronger and faster than I am. He flicks his cigarette away, then moves forward, steering me until my back is against the restaurant’s exterior wall.

“What do you think I told him?” he asks.

His voice is strained, but dripping with suggestion. He reaches up and drags two fingers along the side of my neck.

“Do you think I told him how your pulse flutters beneath this spot when you’re nervous?”

I swallow hard, then steel my gaze as best as I can.

“Smith . . .”

He ignores me, cocking his head a bit and staring into my eyes. In this light, the color of his irises is far closer to black than blue. I feel a little shiver run over my skin as I watch the muscles in his arms flex and tighten. His lips are moist and full, but he licks them for good measure and I can feel his touch everywhere—even in the places where he really shouldn’t touch me.

“Do you think I told him how, when I kiss beneath your ear, you make the prettiest little whimpers?”

His voice is intoxicating and I want to close my eyes.

“Do you think I told him how you may look angelic, but your tongue can do devilish things in a man’s mouth?”

He leans in so close, I feel his breath against my lips and I have no choice but to breathe it in. To breathe him in.

“Do you think I told him how you have the most beautiful body I’ve ever seen? Or how much I want to taste you?”

He moves a hand from my shoulder to my waist, then lets it coast slowly down toward my thigh.

“How I’m dying to feel how wet you are right now. How I want to slide my cock so deep inside you, you’ll feel me every time you move for a whole week after.”

I can’t help it.

I moan.

I moan in a way I should not be moaning, in a way that makes me want to clamp my hand over my mouth, which I would if Smith didn’t have me effectively pinned against him and the wall.

“Hyacinth,” he murmurs. His breath is coming in quick bursts, and he ducks his head to press his mouth against my collarbone. I feel the bristles of his hair along my jaw, and all I want to do is pull him closer.

“Please.”

The word is out of my mouth before I can stop it, and I don’t even have time to regret it before Smith pulls me harder against him. He slides his hand further up my inner thigh until he reaches the edge of my panties. He toys with the elastic with his fingers and I feel my eyes cross.

“Tell me what you want,” he whispers against my skin. I shake my head.

“I don’t know what I want. I don’t think . . .”

“You think too much,” Smith scolds, but his tone is gentle. Ever so slowly, he lets his fingers slide over the wet silk between my needy flesh and his confident touch.

“Fuck,” Smith mutters, trailing his hand along my dampness before moving my underwear aside. “You’re so wet for me.”

As his fingertips swirl through my wetness, one lands on my clit and makes a steady pulsing rhythm.

“Oh my God,” I whimper.

Smith chuckles at my words, then leans in to press his mouth against mine.

“Let me take you home tonight,” he says.

I swallow, glancing back at the grimy door of Dino’s.

“I need to take my dad back to Holly Fields.”

“After that, then.”

I open my mouth to say no at the exact same time as two of Smith’s fingers breach my tight opening. I literally have to force myself not to cry out.

The truth is that I want him inside me.

The truth is that I want to go home with him.

“I’ll make you feel so good, baby,” Smith is murmuring in my ear. He moves his fingers in an even faster rhythm, and I can feel my body involuntarily grinding down against his hand.

“I can’t wait to see your body spread out in front of me,” he whispers. “You’ll be wet and ready and throbbing and begging me to fuck you. But I won’t do it—not until I get my mouth on that hot pussy.”

He grazes my earlobe with his teeth, and I shiver at the slight pinch of pain when he bites lightly.

“I bet you like it hard and deep, don’t you, baby? I bet you want me to make you scream. Tell me how you like it—how we should start.”

He thrusts his fingers deeper and my legs almost collapse beneath me.

“You want to start pressed up against the wall?” He asks, his voice a low growl. “Or how about with you splayed across my kitchen table, your pussy poised right at one edge so I can fuck you while I’m still standing up?”

“God, yes,” I practically moan. I’m running out of words that aren’t expletives or basic animal grunts.

Smith chuckles deeply, then in one swift movement, spins me around so that my belly and breasts are flattened against the exterior wall. Before I can make a sound, he’s yanked my underwear down my legs and shoved his hand back between them, adding a third finger to where there were only two before.

“Maybe you’ll like it from behind,” he says, filling my wet channel over and over with the thrilling pulse and stretch of his thick fingers. “Maybe you’ll like it when I bend you over and hold you down.”