They announce and crown the royalty from lower classmen up, saving the seniors for last. I’m not a bit surprised when her name is called as queen. I put my fingers in my mouth and give a loud whistle that makes everyone look my way. I do mock adoration and clap with the rest of them while Sloane accepts the crown with a fake smile and a shouted thank you.
I feel like a complete jackass when she leaves the stage and beelines it away from me, toward the bathrooms.
Sloane
I duck into the bathroom stall and lean my back against the door with an exhale.
It’s all just so empty. When I got to Cave Hills High, I held my head high, tossed my hair and played the part I knew so well. I didn’t want anyone to know about my past, so I became their queen.
But now I’m a little queasy after being on stage. I don’t want this damn crown. Sure, I loved getting crowned Homecoming royalty every year of high school in Grosse Pointe, but that feels like a million and a half years ago.
I was a different person then. The wealthy but ignored princess of a stock broker. Crowns and popularity help fill the void left by an empty homelife.
Now, I know it’s all bullshit. I knew what to say and how to act to win their esteem. I’m a little standoffish, a lot better-than-thou, and I have all the right clothes and accessories, minus the car. And of course, I’m pretty. I guess that’s enough to win me homecoming queen.
No one out there is a real friend. No one has any idea of who the real Sloane McCormick is. The girl who pretty much always suffered from imposter syndrome. Never felt like she deserved the space she takes up. They’d turn on me in a heartbeat if they knew who my father was. What he did. What I’ve done to try to save my ass.
And having Bo out there witnessing it all somehow makes me feel like all the cracks in my armor show. Before, no one looked too closely.
But he does. He sees way too much, that guy. And I know he’s mocking me every step of the way.
And yet, the crazy part is how addictive his attention is, too. I’m running from it, but part of me can’t wait to go out there and dance with him again. Look into that handsome face and keep flipping him the bird.
So I exit the stall, put on fresh lipgloss and head back out. I find Bo sitting with my friends at one of the tables, drinking punch and ice waters and laughing. I pull out a chair, but Bo tugs me onto his lap, his strong arm curling around my waist.
This is pretend. He’s trying to make me uncomfortable, so like on the dance floor, my best solution is to go with it. I loop an arm around his strong shoulders, lean in and bite his ear. Kinda hard.
His arm tightens around my waist. “Careful,” he murmurs. “Or I’ll be punishing you later.” His hand trails up my leg. He shifts his legs—and mine on top of his—so they’re under the table, hidden by the tablecloth. Then he slides his calloused palm right up my inner thigh.
I squeeze my legs together to stop its ascent before he hits the apex.
“Mmm,” he rumbles and nips my shoulder. “I think Tyler would definitely be at third base, don’t you?” His wicked voice is a murmur against my skin. Too quiet for my friends to hear. Enough to set my panties on fire.
I shift slightly on his lap, and he groans, letting me know his dick is hard against my ass.
“Come on, Legs. Open those sweet thighs just a little more.”
I don’t want to. Well, that’s not true—I desperately want to. That’s the problem. I shouldn’t, though. Bo is here to taunt me, and this torture just may be my undoing.
And I can’t help myself.
My thighs ease apart, just a little more, and his fingers slide higher, brushing the gusset of my panties.
I wore a sexy thong—G-string, actually. Obviously some part of me knew I’d be letting this baller under my skirt tonight.
He takes his time, teasing me with the lightest feather touch on the silk of my panties. It has the effect of sensitizing every part of my body. Causing me to lean into the sensation, turn every receptor on.
Then he slides his finger underneath.
I close my lips around my gasp. My pelvic floor lifts and squeezes at the same time my thighs fall open wide for him.
“That’s it, sugar. Open for me.”
My nipples burn against my dress, core heats. And I’m wet. Embarrassingly wet. He initiates a slow exploration of my swollen lady parts, and I have to work to keep from panting. To keep from moaning. Every part of it feels wonderful.