If my father knew about last night…
My spine goes rigid at the thought.
And at the same time, I wonder... maybe that’s why I did it? Am I cracking under the pressure? Do I just need a release?
My mind replays, over and over, Gwendolyn pressed against those lockers, the flicker of fear in her eyes when she finally realized that maybe I could be dangerous, and how scary I could be. And the frisson of power I felt when she did. She’d fought back longer than I’d expected. She’d held her own physically and mentally, matching my strength, my wit, my bite.
Until I’d stumbled—caved—given in to the impulse of imposing myself on her. Winning the only way I could, by force.
Except she didn’t freak out, or panic, or cry.
Her whimper against my mouth had nothing to do with fear. She just liked it that much.
My dick twitches, rising at the memory.
I press my forearm against the tile and exhale. I’d been hard since storming out of the locker room the night before—hard every time I thought about the feel of her body, the taste of her tongue.
What’s wrong with me?
Oh, right.
I’m eighteen. Horny. Wound up. Completely, annoyingly normal.
And hey, a pair of tits is a pair of tits.
At least that’s what I tell myself as I take my length into my hand, giving it a long, slow stroke. It doesn’t matter who they belong to. Like, I think of Reagan. Cute, perky, willing-to-please, Reagan. Reagan with the shiny blond hair, with the senator father, the girl who is more than happy to get on her knees for me. She doesn’t fight me. She doesn’t push back. She’s not…
Fuck. Fuck. Fuuuuuk.
Gwendolyn fucking Adams.
That’s who these tits belong to; a freak, a reject, a snitch.
But, still, my mind offers unwillingly, beautiful, strong, determined.
My balls tighten, my breath catches, and I’m just so fucking tired of holding back all the time, of always being in control. I lather the soap and tug against the tip, imagining a different hand. I think of a girl in a bathing suit, her body lean and strong and soft. I imagine a pair of hot lips, kissing along my neck, down my chest. I vividly remember those eager fingertips grazing my abs, and my strokes grow shorter, faster, hips pushing into it just imagining what it would have been like if they’d traveled lower, if she’d cupped me in her hot palm, pressing and moving as she licked into my mouth.
Leaning my forehead against my arm, I grunt and come hard enough to shake with it, gasping as my release paints the tiles.
Maybe that was it. Maybe this was just an exorcism, releasing these inconvenient, pent-up hormones, all the stress and emotions that’d built up overnight.
Had to be.
I shut off the shower, finally feeling slightly satiated, and I tell myself that was it—the encounter was over. Done. I’m not thinking about Gwendolyn “Freak” Adams for another second. I have to forget about it.
And she had better forget about it, too.
If not, I’d be forced to definitely make her regret it.
5
Gwen
I spend the entire night tossing and turning in my bed, cringing with constant flashes of memory. The little sleep I get is on and off, disturbed by dreams of angry eyes and a burning mouth, of consuming fires, of falling into the cool blue of Sky’s accusing eyes and still burning—maybe burning even hotter. Each time I surface from one, another smoky tendril seems to pull me back under.
I wake up earlier than usual, ready to be done with the nightmares, but when I dress, I can’t even stand to look at myself in the mirror. I know what would be looking back at me: betrayal. There’d be no hiding from the neon flush of my cheeks. There’d be no denying that these are my lips. These are what they look like after kissing Hamilton Bates. These are my hands, the hands that touched him with intent. This is my body, the one that responded to him, wanted him.
When I’d declared war against the Devils, against Hamilton Bates in particular, this wasn’t what it was supposed to be.