Sweet Thing (Naughty Things 2)

I pass by Aria’s cube and accidentally make eye contact with her. We both look away quickly. But then I remember I have my test results in my back pocket and pull out the envelope and hold it up for her to see through the glass.

She pushes back from her computer and opens the door.

“Here you go,” I say. “Also…” I glance down the hallway where the ballerina—what the fuck is her name? I feel stupid calling her the ballerina—is watching us. “Just… yeah. It was nice meeting your father today. He seems like a really good guy.”

She stares at me for a moment. Then the envelope. Then me again. “Thanks,” she says, taking it from my hand. “I really wasn’t that worried about it.”

“Well…” Yeah, I got nothing for that. “OK. See you around.”

I turn back to the hallway, wave a hello finger at the ballerina, go inside my cube, and close the door behind me. I kick off my shoes and walk over to my kit, grabbing my sticks off the shelf.

The ballerina is directly across the hall from me. She’s doing some exercise at her barre, pretending to be engrossed in her stretches, but glancing over at me every few seconds.

Aria is sitting back at her computer, leaning over. Probably reading my test results.

And how humiliating that is. Right? I was so irresponsible with her, I had to get tested to prove I’m not a man-whore with diseases.

She wasn’t worried about it. I believe her. I wasn’t either. I’m careful.

But the fact is… I fucked up.

I start pounding on my drums. Just making up a beat. My feet hitting the double bass as I bang out a clusterfuck of noise until I get a rhythm going. But my gaze is locked on Aria’s cube. I want her to turn around. I want her to watch me. I want to put on a show for her.

I stop drumming and set my sticks down, then drag my t-shirt over my head and toss it on the floor. I want to make noise and work up a sweat. I want to push Aria Amherst up again a wall and finger her until she comes and then fuck her from behind until her legs are trembling and she’s screaming my name.

But I can’t. I can’t ever touch her again.

So I just do the only thing I can. I play the drums and picture the way she so carefully sat down on my cock that night. The way she moaned, and squeaked when I was fully inside her. The evidence of what I did smeared all over my cock when we were done.

I live in the fantasy because Aria Amherst is now officially off limits.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN – ARIA

After he walks away I stare at his back for a second and the way his tattoos move across the taut muscles of his arms and the way his biceps stretch when he lifts one hand to point at the ballerina girl, then again when he opens his door and walks inside.

The envelope is clutched in my fingers out in front of me and I turn, noticing the ballerina girl is now looking at me weird. Squinting her eyes a little. I sit back down at the computer. I came here under the pretense that I was going to touch up some photographs we were given in class today. But it was a lie.

I’ve been thinking about him all week. Every day when my dad comes to pick me up after class I secretly hope he’s waiting there too. Fully understanding that it’s a fantasy and having Ryker and my dad in the same vicinity is one of the worst ideas ever.

But then… earlier at dinner. My dad was happy and seemed to like Ryker. It was uncomfortable and weird, but the world didn’t implode and I didn’t catch on fire for not mentioning that, Oh, hey. Small world, Dad. This older business guy you’re doing deals with took my virginity in the most amazing way ever last weekend. It was the best night of my life.

It was the best night of my life. I don’t think I fully appreciated just how careful he was with me at the time. And that only made my tantrum about the truffle grilled cheese all that more ridiculous.

God. I really blew it. He’s so done with me. And why shouldn’t he be? I was acting like a child, that’s why I felt like one. He wasn’t treating me like a kid. He planned a pretty thorough adult sexual adventure for us and I messed it all up with my teenage insecurities.

I look at the letter in my hand. It’s a very high-quality envelope. Thick and cream-colored. The kind my parents use when they’re sending out party invitations. And across the front, written in red script Sharpie, is my name.