These Thorn Kisses (St. Mary’s Rebels 3)

This time while breaking curfew.

But I was so happy to see him after such a long time and I… I just didn’t want to bring St. Mary’s between us. But it’s always going to be between us, isn’t it? So I fist my hands and steel my spine to explain my presence at this bar, at this time of night.

“Yes, about that. It’s… I know it’s strictly against the rules. Like, way outside of the rule book. But please, please, don’t punish my friends. They already don’t have very many privileges and I promise — I do — that after this, I won’t let them break any other rule. You can count on me.”

“I can count on you.”

“Yes, you can.” Grimacing and sighing, I continue, “I realize that my word doesn’t mean a whole lot right now. Given everything that has happened and everything that I have done. But I promise. I really, really do. Please.”

He studies me for a few beats, my pleading eyes, my parted lips, before saying, “And what about you? Are you going to break any more rules?”

“No, of course not. Me neither.” I press a hand to my chest. “I won’t break another rule, I promise. But I understand that I’ve already broken this one, so if you want to punish someone, punish me. You can take away my privileges again. Outing, computer, TV, whatever you want. You can punish me however you like. Just please don’t… do anything to my friends.”

He waits a moment to respond.

He uses it, that moment, to run his eyes all over me again.

“I can punish you however I like,” he repeats my words but in a rougher, lower tone.

And I can’t help but think about that day under the tree.

About all the ways he said he’d punish me and all the ways I’d tell him to stop.

So much so that along with my thighs and the place between them, I feel the throb in my ass as well. I feel the burn and I step back to press it against that dresser. His eyes turn even darker at my action and I whisper, “Yes. However you like.”

His nostrils flare at this. And his chest expands as he says, ignoring my invitation, “Who taught you to dance like that?”

“What?”

He jerks his chin at me. “Out there. On the dance floor. Who taught you to move your ass like that?”

Oh.

That’s extremely random.

But I reply anyway. “No one really. But um, my mom sent me to dance classes my freshman year. Although it was a total disaster.”

“Why?”

“Because I wasn’t interested in it. I was going through my oil painting phase back then. You know, before I settled on something less complicated like watercolors, because watercolors are more…” I stop rambling when he narrows his eyes and get back on track. “But anyway, I used to always have like, a book open before practice, or I’d be watching tutorials online. I’d be totally distracted. I’d miss steps or do the wrong ones. The number of times André had to come over and correct my posture was,” I sigh, “not funny. I was his worst student ever.”

I was.

Like I’m his worst student. Player. Whatever.

I think I’m just bad at everything else in this world except… art.

“André,” he clips, somehow even angrier than before.

“Yes.”

“So he’s responsible for this.”

I frown. “Responsible for what?”

“For you” — he dips his chin, his eyes boring into mine — “dancing like a stripper.”

“What?”

“Tell me something. Did this André also tip you? For shaking that ass. Slip you a twenty dollar bill every time he came to correct your goddamn posture? So very many times, according to you, that it’s not fucking funny.”

I draw back at this, at the venom in his voice. “You’re… That’s —”

“No actually, what I’d like to know is why is it, that men are always sniffing around you, and you’re the last person in this whole goddamn world to know about it.” He leans forward then, his teeth clenched. “Why is it that assholes like your dance teacher and your fucking art teacher, Mr. Pierre, and whoever the fuck Robbie was, are always salivating like dogs over your tiny self-decorated body and you never have a clue? What I’d like to know, Bronwyn, is what the fuck goes on in that bubblegum pink brain of yours?”

“You’re insane,” I say with a screeching voice. “Mr. Pierre is…”

I trail off.

Because… Because how does he know about Mr. Pierre? How does he know the name Robbie? How does…

And then something drops inside my body.

Something heavy and warm and liquid that makes me part my lips. It makes me press my thighs together and curl my toes.

“You remember,” I breathe out. “You remember that night. You remember…”

Me.

He keeps watching me, his eyes dark and intense. “You.”

I jerk out a nod, wordlessly.