STRIPPED (The Slate Brothers 3)

“I like him, though. I like the way he makes me feel,” I say. I’m wading in carefully, and to be honest, I want to tell Trishelle about the new experiences I had last night— about how crazy and wild and new it all was. But…it was Tyson, and I’m not sure how Trishelle would take that.

I don’t want to hurt her, even if she has been acting a little self-absorbed lately.

Thankfully, Trishelle’s phone chimes, and she falls into it, texting back frantically for a few moments before looking up at me and saying, “You should go for him, Anna. You’ve been a good girl your whole life. So was I— and trust me, it has been really, really fun letting that go.”

“Yeah,” I say, and nod, feeling even more sad now. “Yeah, okay. Maybe I will.”

“Good,” she says with a wink, and then calls someone back on the way to her bedroom. She shuts the door, and I hear her voice change into the high pitched one she uses with the other cheerleaders. She’s recounting the story of Tyson coming over, but in the version she tells them, she doesn’t admit that he never touched her— instead, she strongly implies they slept together.

I feel nauseous at the way she’s behaving. I wish we could go back to the way things used to be before she made the cheerleading team and changed.

But somehow I don’t think we can go back.

I think things are only going to get weirder from here on out…

Chapter 9

Tyson texts me the following day.

T.S.: I’ll find you at the party tonight— Trishelle is coming, she’ll give you directions. Don’t wear panties. Shave your pussy.

My heart surges and my core heats up; I chew my lip, trying to hide my arousal from my classmates. Looking over my shoulder I finally type back, fingers trembling.

Anna: Completely shaved? Like bare?

T.S.: Yes.

I’ve done the basic bikini wax, but shaving myself totally bare is new territory. I’m definitely not brave enough to get a straight up Brazilian, so I stick to a new razor and slowly shave myself clean late that afternoon. It feels dirty and wonderfully wrong; this sort of shaving is the thing you do when you’re expecting someone’s hands or mouth or…cock.

Is he going to fuck me tonight? My heart begins to race at the prospect. I touch myself, both marveling at how slick and smooth I feel and wary when I feel how tight I am even around my own finger. Was Tyson’s cock as big as I’m remembering it, or am I just working myself up over his size?

It’s almost nine o’clock when Trishelle emerges from the bathroom and stops short when she sees me standing in the kitchen, clearly dressed to go out.

“Where are you headed?” she asks.

“I thought I’d go to the party with you,” I say with a shrug.

Trishelle hesitates, and her mouth opens and closes a few times. “Yeah, sure. How…did you know there was a party, though? It’s a pretty like…low profile kind of thing.”

I force a smile purely to mask the incredible hurt— she doesn’t want me to go. She doesn’t think I should go. She hadn’t told me about it, and hadn’t planned to. “You told me that night you came in drunk, when Tyson Slate was here. I went in to check on you and you said I shouldn’t let you drink as much at this one.”

It sounds like it could be true, and I suppose that’s enough; Trishelle shrugs, and then insists I change clothes. “It’s really exclusive,” she says. “Wear something of mine. And you have to wear heels, Anna. I know you hate them, okay? But you have to wear them.”

I agree, reluctantly, and manage to get into a new dress without her noticing that I’m going without panties, as Tyson ordered. A half hour later we’re off, Trishelle walking in long, powerful strides and me wobbling behind her taking far more careful, wary steps. The party is being held at one of the off campus row houses that are mostly occupied by ultra-wealthy alumni, who use them for parties or as game-day homes. Every house on the strip has a Charlotte banner hanging out the front, and the lawns are manicured so flawlessly that for a moment, I think the beds of pansies and marigolds are fake.

Trishelle was right— this party is more upscale than the glorified kegger at the varsity sports house. The interior isn’t packed, though it is full, and everyone is wearing dress shirts or cocktail dresses. There are no red Solo cups— just glasses of champagne and wine— and there’s a bartender in the kitchen. Trishelle almost immediately fades into a crowd of cheerleaders, and though she doesn’t say it aloud I can tell that she doesn’t want me clinging to her (which, once upon a time, would have been called “supporting” her). I float away, my eyes leaping and heart pounding each time I see a football player enter the house. There’s no sign of Tyson, though, so I stick to one of the corners and sip on a glass of champagne for the better part of an hour.