Room 242-4th Period
Curiosity piqued, I tuck the paper into my pocket and turn the opposite way of my Spanish class and turn down the hall, following the room numbers affixed to the top of the classroom doors. Room 242 isn’t as much a room as a storage closet between the boys' and girls' locker rooms. I approach and rest my hand on the doorknob, stomach twisting with nerves. Chief McMichael warned me about nosing around—is that what this is? I ignore the pounding of my heart as I turn the knob and enter the small, dark room.
“Hello?” I call, feeling a prickle on my neck.
A footstep shuffles on the floor—back behind a tall shelf. Every inch of my body goes on high alert. That note may have not even been for me. There was no name on it, maybe I am just looking for trouble? My mind flashes to the SugarBabies app.
Go! Now! my brain shouts. I spin and reach for the door, at the same time a hand clamps down on my shoulder.
“You got my note,” a voice says, warm in my ear. “I was afraid you wouldn’t come.”
Adrenaline shoots through me. Scared and—
“Ezra?” I whisper.
I turn and see the handsome boy standing a few inches away. His frame is imposing for this little room, there’s barely enough room for the two of us. With my nerves on edge, I can’t help but think that he could overpower me easily.
“Hey,” he says, a smile tugging at his pretty lips. He tucks a piece of hair behind my ear.
“Is everything okay?” My heart pounds in my chest—differently than before. Less fear, more curiosity. The look he’s giving me elicits a shiver down my spine.
“I was bored,” he confesses. His eyes dart to my lips. “And missing you.”
“Ozzy and I went to sell some ads,” I reply. “Sorry I wasn’t at lunch.”
“This week has been crazy. Between football and hosting the float, I just needed a little peace and quiet.” He touches m
y hip. “And a minute alone with you.”
I can’t imagine having the float activities at my house. It’s non-stop people every day after school, until about 10 p.m. Ezra gets home from practice, and everyone is already there, playing music, being loud, and he still has to get his homework done and deal with everything else.
“How are things with your dad?”
He shrugs. “He had to go into the city yesterday and spent the night, but he’ll be back for the game and other festivities this weekend.” His fingers squeeze my hip. “You know I didn’t ask you in here to talk about my dad.”
I see the flicker of want in his eyes—it matches the flame in my belly. My body remembers Ezra’s touch—how he made me feel up on the couch in his room. The small talk had been to create a buffer, something between us other than this continuous, building desire, but when his hand slips behind my neck and pulls me close? I forget all about those other things.
Ezra’s mouth is warm, his tongue quick. He moves with the graceful ease of a natural athlete, his body reacting on instinct. He leads the play. He leads me. Just like on his couch, I’m putty in his hands.
He guides me backwards until my back hits the flat surface of the door. My fingers roam, pushing under the hem of his shirt, touching the warm skin of his hard abdomen. My thumb brushes the spot he told me was “dangerous.” I don’t care. This whole thing is dangerous. If either of us were caught, we’d get in huge trouble. In-school suspension at the least, benched from the game Friday night.
Maybe I’m not the only one looking for trouble.
Braced against the door, his hips meet mine, grinding against me in a deliciously disturbing way. I feel him; the length, the hardness. With his tongue in my mouth and my heart beating like a drum, I can’t help but think about how he brought me over the edge the other night. Maybe it’s time I do the same for him.
I reach for the waist of his jeans, thumbing at the button. He stops kissing me, but doesn’t really move, just presses his forehead to mine.
“Babe, you do not have to—"
Adrenaline surges because I know I don’t have to do anything. I want to.
I unbutton his jeans and tug at the zipper. Ezra places a hand on the door next to my head, his chest rising and falling. My own heart thunders as my hand dips under his shorts, grazing the unique feel of hard and soft.
The minute it’s in my hand I have no idea what to do. I glance up and our eyes meet. He licks his bottom lip and then places his hand over mine, moving it slowly. “Like this,” he says, guiding me. He swallows thickly and nods his approval.
Never in my life have I felt something so opposing—hard, yet soft. Hot, yet wet. Smooth, but loose. It’s the most perfect motion, and with every stroke, each tug, the boy in front of me falls gently apart.
The strangest sensation rolls over me as I bring him to the edge. I’ve spent the last month out of control—maybe the last few years—spun into a whirlwind by Rose’s actions. Yet here I am, engaging in the taboo, and I feel more powerful than I have in a long time—if ever.