Catch Twenty-Two (Westover Prep 2)

“Zeke?” I whisper, waiting for him to lash out at me. “Are you—”

Arms grab me and lips crash against mine before I can finish my sentence. At first, I try to push him away, but when our mouths break for a second, another sob escapes his lips and I can taste the salt of his tears.

Something inside of me breaks for him. Not once has he cried or shown any other hint of emotion besides anger since we met. He’s hurting, and I hate when others are in pain. It’s not my job to fix him. He probably doesn’t even deserve what I’m offering, but I refuse to listen to those voices in my head.

I kiss him back, hoping it helps with whatever he’s struggling with. He doesn’t have to be a good person for me to offer kindness and compassion. Those are his faults to battle with later, not my own.

His hands roam my body, not aggressively, but also without the same level of care he presented at the fair. His lips meet my neck, nipping and biting at the sensitive skin near my collarbone before rough hands shove my shirt out of the way. He doesn’t bother pulling my bra to the side to gain access to my pebbled flesh. He merely bites at my nipples over the lace. The tiny jolts of pain renew the arousal I felt weeks ago in the haunted house.

I keep my hands on his shoulders, unsure of what to do or say as he takes what he needs from me. I know where this is heading, but that still doesn’t stop the shock when one rough hand tangles in my hair so he can angle my mouth to his liking while the other works open the front snap of my shorts.

Every synapse in my body is firing all at once, leaving me off-kilter, but he doesn’t seem to notice when my fingernails dig into his shoulders so hard, they’re bound to leave marks on his skin.

“What are you—”

He silences me once again with his mouth, and even though my head is telling me to pump the brakes, my body loves every ounce of his attention, and that’s what’s winning out right now.

When his fingers dive into my shorts, rubbing me over my panties, my knees nearly buckle.

He doesn’t laugh as he has to step closer to keep me upright. He doesn’t speak as he shoves my shorts down my now trembling legs. He doesn’t assure me that everything is going to be okay as he kneels before me and tugs my boots from my feet and shoves my clothing away.

And I’m no better.

I don’t ask for an explanation as he shakes out a horse blanket, laying it on the floor. Instead of trying to get him to explain exactly what’s going on, I place my hand in his when he reaches for me. I don’t complain or halt him when he settles between my thighs and takes my mouth again with his. I can only whimper when he grinds forward, proving that he’s as affected by me as I am by him.

But when he unzips his own jeans, the rasp echoing around the tack room, roughly shoving them down enough to free himself and pressing against my entrance, my brain finally decides to catch up. I push my palms to his chest. Waiting for him to refuse to stop, but he merely looks down at me, breath rushing from his parted lips. The minimal light in the tack room is just enough for me to see a flush to his cheeks and need glittering in his eyes. I can only imagine what he sees when he looks down at me.

“Condom,” I manage on a gasp as he locks eyes with me before pushing forward. My body struggles to accommodate him, and I push against him harder with an insistent shove to get his attention. “Condom.”

He groans as he inches back, but he doesn’t throw a fit like I anticipate. He kneels back on his haunches as he struggles to pull his wallet out of his shoved-down jeans. He doesn’t say a word as he fishes a foil packet from the leather, but watching him seems too intimate despite what’s about to happen, so I look away, letting my eyes focus on a spot in the darkness while I wait for him to prepare himself.

“Fuck,” he grumbles, but before long, he’s settling back over me.

“Zeke,” I whisper, but it’s his turn to angle his head so he doesn’t have to look at me.

Embarrassed only moments ago by his eyes on me, I feel coldness settle over us when he refuses to look at me. It cheapens what’s going to happen. It diminishes what we’re doing.

Before I can back out, he pushes forward in one long thrust, spearing into me on a low groan.