Текст книги "Stain"

Автор книги: Francette Phal

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Текущая страница: 8 (всего у книги 14 страниц)

Chapter 14

Aylee

The week drags on at a snail’s pace. Each morning I wake up with a renewed hope that I’ll see Maddox at school again, but by the end of each day that hope burns to embers of despair. There’s a strange weight on my chest that only seems to grow heavier with each passing day. It feels like a boulder stopping my heart from finding its proper rhythm. He doesn’t show up to group therapy either, so by Friday night all I want to do is curl up in bed with a blanket over my head with a Netflix marathon of Audrey Hepburn movies to watch until I fall asleep and pray that I’ll forget him. Forget about his piercing eyes. Forget the way he’d touched me on Tuesday, and held my face so tenderly in the palm of his hand while trying to comfort me. Forget about the effect his words have on me, and how much I quake inside when he tells me to do something. Forget about his athletic frame, the broadness of his shoulders, the rise and dips of his abdomen adorned by all those tattoos. Forget that all too distinct line of toned muscles that cuts down his slim waist and leads to his groin where his long, thick, perfectly-veined penis springs up from between his lengthy, powerful legs like a masterfully-crafted pillar. Forget him, and forget everything. But I can no more forget every wickedly beautiful aspect of him than I can forget my own name.

“Would you do it?”

I blink. “Do what?” I’m in Mallory’s room. No movie for me this Friday night. Not only is it Halloween, but I’ve been given permission to spend the night at Mallory’s house. I’m not sure how she did it, but after telling her I wasn’t going to be able to spend the night at her house like we’d first planned two weeks ago, she had me call Tim and took the phone from me to talk to him. It took her less than two minutes to get him to agree for me to have a sleepover at her house.

“Let Maddox Moore fuck you on camera.”

My eyebrows shoot to my hairline. If I’d been drinking something right now, I would’ve spit it out all over myself. Giving her a bemused look, I try to figure out exactly when and how we got into this conversation. “What?”

She turns to look at me from where she stands in her walking closet and rolls her eyes. “Don’t play stupid with me. That whole ‘I’m so innocent act’ is only going to get you so far. I saw you with him the other day, you know. And Danielle and Alecia said they saw you at his apartment the day you totally ditched me. So I want to know, are you going to let Maddox fuck you for his website?”

I’m concentrating so hard on the screen of my phone that I’m sure it’s going to go up in flames any second now. That, or it’ll just be me who spontaneously combusts. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, Mal.”

“Fucking spare me, Aylee. Why are you keeping stuff from me? I thought we were supposed to be best friends.”

I look at her. “We are,” I insist.

“Then why the hell didn’t you tell me you’re fucking Maddox?”

God. This conversation is spinning out of control. “I’m not! I’m not doing anything with him. I just wanted to ask if he would pose for me. I told you I needed three new and different pieces for my portfolio.”

“So what, you’re going to just…paint him?” Despite the skepticism in her voice, she sounds utterly confused. Like the thought of doing anything other than ‘fucking’ Maddox Moore was inconceivable. She wouldn’t be wrong. The idea of being intimate with Maddox didn’t just cross my mind, it lingered there. It brought baggage and made a nice, comfortable home inside my brain and in the inferno-hot place directly south of my stomach.

With a shrug, I shift from side to side on her bed before bringing my legs to my chest. “I don’t think he’s going to do it.” I’m referring to the drawing. Resting my head on my upraised knees, I’m grateful my hair is able to cover my hot face. She saw the bruise, briefly asked me about it, and bought the ‘I walked into an open cupboard’ excuse I gave her.

She takes out a black skater skirt and holds it in front of her while keeping her eyes glued to the mirror. “Well yeah, no shit. The guy fucks and sells drugs for a living. I don’t think he has time for your little art project. And no offense, but he’s kind of out of your league. I just figured he wanted to fuck you on camera, is all. Because that’s his little project. How about this one?” She turns to me for an opinion I’m sure she doesn’t really need.

Choosing to ignore her comments, I answer, “It’s nice, you should wear the thigh-high stockings with it.”

Turning back to the mirror, she scrunches her nose before tossing the skirt on top of the mountain of clothes on the foot of her bed. “Not hot enough. Damn it, I hate that we can’t wear a Halloween costume to a fucking Halloween party! It would’ve been so much easier!”

“What did the text say?”

“Just the address of the party and ‘no costumes.’ Masks will be provided at the door.”

“Then just wear one of your party dresses. Lord knows your closet is full of them.”

She disappears inside her closet and says something I don’t quite catch.

“What? I didn’t hear you.”

She comes back out. “I said, ‘I’d do it with you.’”

I frown. “Do what with me?”

“Fuck Maddox.” Her response is casual. This isn’t a big deal for her. So it’s understandable she doesn’t even realize the impact her answer has on me just now. “I heard he’s really into having a ménage à trois. I’d let him fuck me if you came along.”

No. No, I do not want that. I don’t want any of that. I don’t want her near him. I don’t want her to even look at him! And I especially don’t want her nasty, old man-touching hands on him.

I’m completely shocked at how vehement I become. The very thought of Mallory with Maddox not only makes me ill, but it conjures a thick, black cloud of such menacing fury that I can taste my own jealousy. I want to tackle her to the ground and repeatedly claw at her face. “He doesn’t want you,” I murmur darkly.

Her laughter rings out loud and it’s sharp enough to distract from the tension. “Oh my god, Aylee, you like him!” she says, in between breaths, still laughing like I just told her the funniest joke in the entire history of jokes. “Aw. You’re so cute. I wish you could see your face right now. You look like a kitten who got its favorite toy taken away. God, sweetheart, relax. It’s not even that serious. Yes, I’ll give you that he’s gorgeous as hell, and people tell me he can fuck until you can’t see straight. But honestly, Aylee, at the end of the day he’s just a glorified asshole who wouldn’t give you the time of day. He’s into experienced girls, like me. I mean, do you ever even go out? And therapy doesn’t count,” she adds, giving me a patronizing smile. “He’ll come, probably all over your pretty little face, and he’ll go. If anything, it’s best to just enjoy all of his fuckable qualities, ride his cock, and then put him out of your mind when you’re done. Sweetie… Girls like you don’t date boys like Maddox Moore.” She has the audacity to look at me with synthetic concern. It’s sickening how much of a bitch she’s being right now. “I personally don’t bother with his kind,besides, even if he did want me, he’s not really my type.”

“Yeah, he’s actually age appropriate.” I want to say those words so badly they burn at the tip of my tongue. But in typical Aylee fashion, I say nothing. I fume silently, calling her every bad word that comes to mind. Wishing her the worse venereal disease known to man.

“Stop pouting, Aylee,” she orders with a sigh, like she’s talking to a toddler. Walking around to the right side of the bed, the queen-sized mattress dips when she takes a seat next to me. Taking my hand, she says with a smile, “You know I wasn’t trying to be mean. I just want you to be careful. We’ve been best friends for five years now, if I don’t look out for you some asshole is going to come along and think it’s okay to mess with you. You need me to look out for you. And that’s all I’m doing with the whole Maddox thing. If he wants you, we can both have him.” She touches my cheek, the one without the fading bruise. “I bet you wouldn’t even know what to do with yourself if he pulled out his dick and told you to suck it. That’s why you need me, Aylee. I’ll show you all my best tricks.” She says all this like it’s supposed to be the most reassuring thing in the world when really it’s just Mallory being her typical manipulative self.

Sometimes, like now for instance, I wonder why we’re even friends at all. She and I are so different. I think what initially drew me to her was her bravado and just how unreserved she was. There really was no filter with Mallory. She didn’t necessarily process her thoughts before she said them. That still hasn’t changed. I remember thinking how nice it was when I first met her that she was everything I wasn’t. Everything I wanted to be. Sociable, smart, sexy, and above all else, uninhibited. Her small bouts of narcissism and shallowness never bothered me before. But now I’m finding it harder and harder to ignore them. With a sigh, I sweep my hair behind my ear and resignedly take her for what she is. She’s Mallory. She’s always going to be Mallory. Rude, selfish, and self-absorbed, but deep down beneath all that she’s still my best friend. She’s still the girl who befriended me in eighth grade. She’s still the girl who makes me laugh at the stupidest things. Besides, who am I to judge her just because I sin differently? I have my own horrible qualities. My own ugliness is buried just beneath the surface. The only difference is that Mallory is more transparent about hers.

“He doesn’t want me like that,” I say, after a moment.

“Well, who cares? I’m going to find you some much better prospects at this party. But first, you’re changing your outfit.”

“What’s wrong with what I’m wearing?”

She rolls her eyes. “Only everything. You dress like a fucking sister wife. You’re eighteen. You’re pretty. So let’s just thank fucking Jesus first of all that you don’t belong to some lecher named Jim Bob who lives on a compound somewhere. Now come on,” she finishes, giving a tug on my arm as she pulls me off the bed and drags me to her closet when I’m on my feet. “I know exactly what you should wear.”

Fifteen minutes later, I come out of Mallory’s bathroom fully dressed. Although I’m sure what I’m wearing barely constitutes as nothing at all. It’s a typical Mallory outfit. And if Rachel saw me now, she would undoubtedly ban me from ever seeing Mallory again. As I slip and wiggle my left foot inside the black bootee Mallory lends me, I catch a glimpse of my reflection. I’m not usually fond of mirrors, but this one…

“I look…”

“You look good.”

She isn’t wrong. It’s odd seeing myself in these clothes. But I can’t say it’s a bad thing. I can’t say I don’t like how I look in them. When she’d pulled me to her closet, Mallory tossed clothes at me she expected me to put on. Including the short skater skirt she had looked at a bit ago. And although she is my best friend and I assume girls undress in front of each other, I’ve never felt comfortable enough to do so in front of anyone, not even her. Nonetheless, she’d taken it for another one of my countless eccentricities and while I hurried to the bathroom, she waited patiently. Once I was behind the closed door, I breathed better, silently grateful that she wouldn’t see my scars. While I dressed, I worried the skirt she wanted me to wear would reveal just that. But the stockings were long enough to cover my healing wounds.

Now here I am loving my reflection. With an objective eye, I take inventory of my appearance. I’m wearing the same outfit I suggested she wear. And while she thought it wasn’t hot enough, I do. I like the way the black skater skirt falls about mid-thigh just a few inches higher than the pair of burgundy red thigh-high knee socks I’m wearing. It’s indecently…sexy. I blink in silent shock. Me and sexy are a combination of words I never thought I’d use to describe myself. But here and now, it fits. The skirt is paired with a scooped-neck, short-sleeved white lace shirt that shows just a sliver of midriff. It’s a tantalizing flash of my skin. Modest Aylee is nowhere to be seen.

“Do you want me to do your makeup?”

I shake my head before turning my back to the mirror. “No.” I have to draw the line somewhere. Tucking a few strands of my unbound hair behind my ear, I drop back down onto Mallory’s bed to wait for her.

When she emerges a little later from her closet, the dress she has on flirts on that precarious line between sexy and trashy. The crimson red micro-mini-fit bandage dress is the furthest thing from subtle. But then subtle isn’t what she’s going for. Stopping just a few inches above mid-thigh, the dress clings to her lithe frame like it’s a second skin leaving absolutely nothing to the imagination. It is so tight that it squeezes and lifts her breasts nearly to her neck, displaying an ample amount of cleavage.

She rakes her fingers through her layered locks, turning a few times in the mirror to admire herself before returning an expectant gaze at me. “Well?”

Well indeed. “Very hot.”

Her eyes brighten. “I do look hot, don’t I?

“Muy caliente.”

She tosses a wry grin my way before turning back to the mirror. It appears her reflection is far more giving than my brief Spanish comment as she proceeds to make pouty faces and again raking her fingers through her hair over and over. It takes her another fifteen minutes to reapply her makeup.

“You need to let me put this vampy red lipstick on you, at least.” She heads my way, holding the aforementioned tube of lipstick. “I promise it’ll look really good.”

With resigned sigh, I let her. “Not too much.”

“Shush, just trust me.” She carefully applies the lipstick to my mouth before pulling back with a beaming smile. “Damn, I’m good. I knew this was your color. Go look.”

Shaking my head, I say, “I’ll take your word for it. Ready?”

“Yup, let’s get out of here,” she answers, slipping inside a pair of expensive red-bottomed black heels.

Chapter 15

Aylee

The white Mercedes parked in the circular driveway is an early birthday present from Mallory’s MIA father. It arrived about a week ago just in time to soften the blow of what would ultimately be his absence. This is the latest extravagant gift from Gregory Peters. A corporate attorney who has gone through a much publicized divorce with Mallory’s mother after it’d been discovered that he’d had an affair with a client. Needless to say, Darla Peters has come away with a fortune, but deep-seated psychological issues have force her into seclusion where, according to Mallory, she pops pills and bathes in alcohol all day long. She pretty much ignores Mallory, allowing her to do whatever she wants. It’s kind of sad when you think about it, and I know it hurts Mallory more than she lets on, but according to her, she has the best of both worlds. She has the parental guidance without the unnecessary baggage that goes along with it while conveniently tapping into the Daddy ATM whenever she feels like it.

“How’d you get your car fixed so fast?” I ask, slipping inside the passenger seat after she unlocks the doors.

“Your dad pulled a few strings and got his mechanic to take a look at it for me.” Mallory swiped another car the day after she got the Mercedes. She’s an atrocious driver. And in typical Tim fashion, he goes out of his way for other people but refused to fix the chain on my bike when it broke twice last year. Adjusting her rearview mirror, she puts the key in the ignition, starts the engine, and flies down the street. She takes the ramp onto the highway and goes from zero to seventy in six seconds flat. I’m used to her driving this erratically since getting her license two years ago. But that doesn’t mean I’m not gripping the inner door handle for dear life or that I’m not nervously peering behind us, almost certain a hidden police car will drive out of the woodwork any minute to pull us over. The exit to our destination comes quick, a few turns later and we’re driving down Route 127. Separating the factories and auto shops lining the road is Corwin River, infested with trash and reeking of sewage.

Turning the volume down, I glance at her, “Where exactly is this party?” My brow knits as she turns on a barely lit dirt road. “I thought we were heading to someone’s house.”

“Nope.”

I wait to see if she’s going to provide any more information. She doesn’t. My eyes return to the view outside as she pulls behind a massive red-brick building that’s mostly broken windows with a small sea of cars parked in the dirt lot in front of us. There’s a crowd, teenagers like ourselves wearing white rabbit masks as they make their way inside a dark entrance. Though with a quick second glance, I do spot a few older people that look over twenty-one.

“It’s a Wonderland rave. Alice in Wonderland theme, I guess,” she says, coming to the same conclusion I do. She doesn’t give me a moment to process our surroundings or allow me to talk to her about safety and staying together when she opens the car door and bounds out like an eager puppy.

“Mallory, wait!” Running in heels is the worst thing I can possibly do but I don’t have much of a choice at this point. I catch up to her just as she’s entering the dark interior of the building. There’s an enormous man standing in the partially lit, graffiti-filled hallway. We pay the entry fee and he hands us the same white rabbit mask everyone else is wearing. We proceed farther inside with a small group directly in front of us. When they open the heavily-scratched and dented, rusty metal door we step inside and instantly we’re transported to another world. It’s a world comprising of hypnotic neon strobe lights piercing through the darkness, pulsating to the hard, pounding bass blasting through the subwoofers. It’s a world of euphoric chaos, where lust and sex converge in an arousing orgy of debauchery. My eyes bounce everywhere, unable to focus on just one thing. I feel completely overdressed, and even Mallory’s dress seems modest compared to what the gyrating mass of sweat-stained teenagers are wearing. Which is essentially almost nothing.

Everyone is dancing, swaying to the hard, driving EDM song rumbling through the floor. I keep close to Mallory in fear of getting lost in the crowd, but I’m looking at everything, absorbing everything. The air is stale, overcharged and overheated with a myriad of smells that’s intensely overwhelming. A guy steps directly in our path sporting the same creepy rabbit mask almost everyone else is wearing. The fact that he’s not wearing a shirt makes it possible to see the massive set of butterfly wings strapped to his back. The rainbow tutu skirt hides all that needs to be hidden, while thigh-high leather boots accentuate his slim legs. He has a multitude of glow stick necklaces around his neck, while a rainbow of caricatures glowing prettily in the dark decorates his torso.

“Hey, bitch, ‘bout time you got here!” Invading Mallory’s space, he steps close enough that he can be heard over the music all the while pulling his mask up over his head to reveal a grinning face. Henri Kingston is the indiscriminately brash, boisterous, and often times catty friend Mallory picked up last year in drama class. I’m not a fan of his, namely because when he and Mallory get together it rarely ever ends well. Henri can always be counted on to make Mallory’s habitually bad decisions worse.

Mallory pulls away from me to leap into his waiting arms with a squeal. “I wanted to pick out the perfect outfit! What do you think?” Stepping away, she does a turn.

“Fierceness, bitch! Love the heels!”

He glances my way with a tight, fake smile. “You’re here, too!”

Pursing my lips, I say, “Yup.”

“I’ve got candy!” That’s the end of our conversation as he focuses his attention back on Mallory pulling the string of a small, black pouch from around his left wrist. Tugging it open, he holds it up to Mallory’s excited face. “It’s the purest shit you’ll ever taste.”

“Molly?”

“Better, SKY. Cleaner roll.”

A surge of unease trickles in my veins as I watch my best friend pop a little pink pill. The entire interaction between them is so casual that it casts a shade of surrealism to the scene. “I need a chaser.”

“Snow?”

Mallory giggles, nodding her head. “Oh yeah.”

I will myself to speak, although I’m sure my concerns will be ignored. “Mallory…” The same caution that I constantly live by permeates my voice. “Let’s slow down for a bit and dance, okay?”

She turns to me with a smile, “We’ll dance. I just need to head to the bathroom for like a second. Just wait for me up there.” She points to the steel scaffold just above us. “I’ll come get you as soon as I get back.” Henri pulls her away before I can say anything and she follows giddily behind him without a second glance back.

“Fuck.”

I don’t swear much but I think I’m justified in my current situation. In this instant, surrounded by an orgy of intoxicated people, with the earthquake of the pounding bass line vibrating through my chest and the multihued laser lights picking me out from the crowd, I feel completely and utterly alone and lonely. Like a lost little child, I squeeze my way through the throng in hopes of finding the parent that forgot I was there. But Mallory isn’t my parent. She’s a friend who’s found something better to occupy her time. I should be angry and maybe a part of me is, but it doesn’t rival the mire of self-pity I find myself sinking into. My walk up the steel steps is blurred by hot, stinging tears I refuse to let fall. It isn’t as crowded up here, but all the same, I find the corner with the least amount of people and huddle close to one of the building’s support beams, wishing and hoping I can disappear inside its frosty, concrete interior. Feeling an increasing sense of detachment from it all, I peer down at the crowd for an impossible stretch of eternity wondering if it’s will alone keeping me from hurtling myself over or the metal bar I’m leaning into. There’s no answer. But there’s suddenly someone’s weight against me. Pressing into me. My heart jumps, and two sharp gasps crackle from my throat as my eyes widen in disbelief. Paralyzed by terror, I can only stand there at the feel of the thickness prodding against my backside.

“God, baby, your ass feels so good.” My ears ring as rancid, alcohol-drenched breath steams hot along the shell of my ear. “Bet it’d feel even better with my dick in between your cheeks.” He extends both his arms on either side of my body, his hands gripping the iron railing to completely cage me in. I slowly look up and stare straight ahead, my body in a trancelike state. “I’m going to fuck you so hard, you’re going to beg me for more.” He moves his hips, grinds his erection against my butt cheeks. Still, I don’t move. “You going to scream for me, baby?”

Everything in me screams to get away. To escape. “No.” That’s all that comes out. A terrible, pitiful sound escapes from the fissures of a body that’s already been broken. Left exposed, the demons drag Tim’s presence into the moment, and his shadow, his weight, and his body replace the one behind me.

“My little flower.”

His words. Those revolting three little words play on a loop inside my head like a broken music box. My nightmare comes to life. It breathes down my neck. It touches me with oil-slicked hands. It bleeds violently into my reality, rendering me utterly powerless.

Please…no.

I don’t know how but someone hears my internal plea and in the seconds it takes for me to inhale a shuddering breath, the body of my assailant is gone.

When I turn, it’s to see my rescuer holding my assailant by the front of his shirt, his back bowed dangerously and half hanging over the iron railing. There’s the barrel of a gun firmly fixed against the side of the stranger’s head.

“You good?”

The raspy growl of the voice edged with a pitch of gruffness draws my eyes to the person speaking to me. In that precise moment, a strobe light focuses on him, casting immaculate features in haunting blue laser light, giving him this unworldly appearance. He’s a familiar face in a sea of strangers. The furthest thing from a friend, and yet, the overpowering rush of elation that spirals through me at the sight of his brooding face nearly knocks me to my knees.

Maddox.

An incredibly large, incomprehensible part of me wants to jump into his arms, hide my face against the sturdiness of his chest, and thank him for what he just did. But the very thought of being so close to a guy when I was just assaulted by one keeps me rooted while a flood of trepidation swishes like ice water through my veins. It’s a paradox, the inconsistency of emotions raging a war inside me.

“Hey.”

That one hushed demand has me meeting his gaze. “Did he hurt you?” he asks, a bit more firmly now.

With a shake of my head, I reply, “No.”

“Good,” he says, and then turns his attention to my assailant while still speaking to me. “How long do you think he’ll stay in the air before his body smacks into the ground?”

“Fuck, man! Shit. I’m sorry, all right? Didn’t realize she was your girl!”

“Aylee?”

My eyes fly to his face and though he just said my name, he’s still not looking at me. But from where I’m standing I have a good view of him and he looks completely unfazed by what’s happening. By what he’s doing. He sports the same hard, incisive expression he had when he’d held the sledgehammer to the Infinity driver’s throat last week. “He won’t stay airborne for long.” I find myself replying with an astounding level of coolness that rivals Maddox’s own. “The impact of his body hitting the concrete will be worse.”

“I’m thinking we test that theory. I’m kind of curious now to see just how gravity works. Extra credit toward our astronomy project.” The guy screams in protest when Maddox pushes him a little further over the railing. Sick fascination has me wondering whether he’ll actually do it. When our eyes meet again, I find my answer.

“How about we get extra credit without committing murder? I’ve done it plenty of times before,” I utter.

I see his mouth twitch. “Commit murder?”

I’m not at all surprised he can find humor in this. I’m slowly learning Maddox Moore is a little off that way. “Get extra credit,” I correct. “You should let him go.”

It does something strange to my insides when he actually complies and tugs the guy back from the edge and steadily brings him onto his feet. But he keeps the gun exactly where it is against the guy’s head. “You should apologize for putting your filthy fucking hands on her.”

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry. I’ll never do it again. I’m sorry for touching you!”

I know it’s not sincere, I know he’s only doing it because he’s under duress, but I don’t really care. It makes me feel good to see this jerk grovel, it feels amazing to hear him apologize for invading my space. For putting his hands on me without my fucking permission. Without thinking, without any form of hesitation, I walk up to the perverter, raise my booted foot, and kick him as hard as I can in the balls. His eyes widen as he doubles over in pain. When Maddox releases him, he crumples to floor into a fetal position, cupping a hand between his tightly-clenched thighs. I have no pity for him.

All I can think about is him doing this to some other girl who wouldn’t be so lucky as to have anyone step in to help her. I look down at him and I raise my foot to kick him again. It’s like the haze I fall into when I’m cutting. I forget where I am. Nothing else exist except to see how perfectly I can execute my internal emotions and turn them into something physical. Kicking this man is my anger being executed. The anger feels so good. For once in my entire life, I’m given a small chance to feel powerful. To be in control of something other than my razor blade.

I feel arms wrap around my waist, feel myself being lifted inches from the ground before Maddox sets me back down again, effectively stopping me from inflicting any more damage. The instant his cool hand curves around the left side of my face and he lowers his head close enough for us to share a breath, the haze dissipates.

Huskily, he asks, “Feels good, doesn’t it?” I suddenly have no idea to what he’s referring because the way he’s looking at me now, the soft, gentle caress of his thumb at the corner of my mouth, him teasing my bottom lip open makes me forget I’m ever anything but mindlessly intoxicated by him.

“What?” I’m stupid with lust, it’s a heady pheromone percolating in the air we share.

“The anger? Letting go…” He inclines his dark head, comes within inches of my partially open mouth. My eyes flick up and down between his smoldering gaze and his insanely sensual mouth as my lips tremble for a taste, for a small helping of what I can only imagine to be mind-blowing sustenance. I can feel my heart beating even while I momentarily stop breathing. I’m faint from anticipation.

Kiss me, Maddox. Please…please…press your beautiful mouth to mine.

I think he will.

I pray he does.

I feel myself die a little when he doesn’t. But it’s a short-lived, emotional death. It’s only mere seconds later that he rouses embers of such raw, carnal desires in me. His wicked mouth coasts past my lips, the combination of his hot breath and the slide of his wet lips trailing along my cheek produces an explosion of goose bumps along my skin. I forget that kissing is even a thing. This… This simple, tantalizing play of breath and flesh on flesh is more intimate than if he were to simply kiss me. This is sweet, tortured eroticism.

“Feels…good…?” A gasp escapes from my lips as my eyes widen. His hand on my bare skin falls on the outside of my thighs and then in the space between my skirt and the leggings. He strokes that bit of skin with the backs of his curved fingers. Up and down. Up and down. Slowly, ever so slowly inching upward until his hand disappears beneath the skirt. “I like the way you feel, Ay…lee.” The low, indescribably sexy whisper of his words and the guttural exhalation of my name evokes a body-tingling shudder. I have to lift my hands to grip his shoulders when he gently strokes up the curve of my right butt cheek, and my knees turn to jelly.