Enemy Dearest

She deserves better than that.

She doesn’t deserve to be objectified—which is also why I’ve recently deleted the security videos from our trysts in my bedroom. And from here on out, I’ll disable the cam when she’s over. What happens between us, stays between us.

“August, you have to go.” She nods toward the window. “Seriously, don’t do this again, okay?”

Yeah, it was a crazy move—but I couldn’t get her out of my head all day, waiting until the weekend was out of the question, and there was nothing else to do.

I hoist myself out the window and land on my feet. Sheridan leans her head out, her messy hair falling down her shoulders and spilling into her cleavage.

“Friday,” she says. “Your place.”

I scoff. As if I need the reminder.

A minute later, I drive to my side of town, drowning out my cacophony of obsessive thoughts with some random MUNRO album I have on my phone. I crank the volume until the music echoes inside me, through me, and all over me—like I’m made of hollow glass.

Halfway into the next song, I slam on the brakes—this isn’t a hollowness I’m feeling … it’s a fullness.

I don’t know what that means, but it isn’t anything I’ve ever felt before with anyone else … and it can’t be good.

Chapter Twenty-Six

Sheridan

* * *

I roll to the empty side of the bed Friday night, fresh off of orgasm number three. He promised me no less than five, but we’ve been going at this since I stepped foot inside his bedroom, and I’m honestly exhausted.

“You want to take a break?” he asks, grabbing some waters.

I steal a glimpse of his naked backside when he isn’t looking. He’s got a body built for pleasure and sin, but I’ve never really taken the time to fully appreciate his chiseled abs or the way his muscles dip in the small of his back just above his perfect ass.

“Yes,” I say.

Grabbing a remote, he points to a painting on the wall—which I’m now realizing was a TV all this time—and powers on Netflix. Sliding into bed next to me, he props a pillow behind his back and tells me to pick something.

It’s strange how comfortable this is, how natural it feels to be with him.

Inside these walls, we’re not a Rose and a Monreaux. We’re two adults who happen to enjoy one another’s company for reasons even we can’t explain. Although I hardly know him, when we’re together, I’m as comfortable with him as I am someone I’ve known my entire life. It’s strange. And makes zero sense. But I can’t deny it. And believe me, I’ve tried.

I force the thoughts away and focus on the menu.

No point in entertaining what could have been … what will never be.

We’re only hooking up. We both leave for college in a couple of weeks. Being together openly would have a myriad of consequences for both of us. His dad would disown him. My mother would be heartbroken. My father would be devastated—though he’s honestly the least of my concerns right now.

I choose a featured documentary about an octopus and hit ‘play.’

Nudging closer, August rests his hand on my bare thigh, his fingertips tracing the inside of my leg. The show is a little less than exciting, but I was trying to choose something neutral, something we could both enjoy.

“Trying to warm me up for round four?” I ask as he cups my cheek and steals a kiss.

It’s three AM. We haven’t slept a wink. At this rate, we won’t be sleeping at all. And I’m supposed to be at work in nine hours …

“Just getting as much of you as possible, while I can.” He takes me by the wrist and guides me into his lap. His palms skim my thighs before he grabs my ass. His hardness grows between my thighs, his hot flesh against mine. One careless move and he’d be inside me sans condom, and we’re not there yet.

I’m not trying to have a Monreaux baby …

“You’d think the world was ending, the way we’re going at it …” I brush a messy wave from his perfect face. Our eyes rest in some intimate, otherworldly place, but I convince myself I’m reading into nothing, and I break the gaze.

I force myself to imagine him at Bexler this fall, which I hear is basically an all-you-can-eat buffet of beautiful co-eds. It’s said that “all the pretty girls go to Bexler.” I overheard someone in my French class saying that Bexler is the school where most women leave with a degree they’ll never use and a guaranteed future as a trophy wife.

That’ll be August someday. He’ll marry a beautiful woman, provide her with endless orgasms and a lifetime of security—and I’m okay with that. Because I have to be.

Even if it breaks my heart a little …