Angry God (All Saints High 3)

“Close the door after you,” she whispered into my face when we were toe-to-toe. “Then get in my bed.”

And the stupid, horny, teenage asshole that I was, I did.

“I said if you pushed me, I’d push harder.” I clucked my tongue, striding to Vaughn in my sexy lingerie. “Actually, I said it many months ago, when we were still seniors. Remember?”

Because I do.

Vaughn sat on my bed. The metal headboard behind him was round, thin, and perfect for my plan. I produced the handcuffs Pope had given me from my nightstand drawer—I hadn’t dared ask where he’d gotten them—and straddled Vaughn’s narrow waist, feeling his abs contracting under his shirt as he sucked in a breath.

His throat bobbed, but his lips stayed pursed and sullen. He had this upper-class quality about him no new-moneyed man could buy—a rich boy’s pout that stirred something between your legs.

Mine, anyway.

He watched me through hooded, predatory eyes, probably thinking my plan was to kneel like the rest of them and service him chained to my headboard, unable to push my hair out of my face. He was predictable, and entirely too used to getting what he wanted.

But the things we want aren’t always the things we need. Vaughn needed a reminder that he didn’t rule the world—a nice, generous dose of reality check. Most of all, he needed to learn a thing or two about intimacy.

“Finally wrapping those lips around my cock?” he taunted, his voice thick with lust, strained.

We still hadn’t broached the subject of our last conversation, in which I’d told him to take a hike. He seemed to have forgotten all about it. That was unlike observant, sharp-witted Vaughn. Not even asking what I was doing in a sexy nightgown? Why I wanted to chain him to my bed? Why the change of heart?

Your heart has nothing to do with this, I scolded myself. You’re just teaching him a lesson.

My sculpture—partly salvaged, but mostly ruined, with just the face remaining perfectly intact—was covered by a simple beige cloth in the corner of my room. Funny, I felt just as torn as it was.

I shrugged at Vaughn’s question. “Only one way to find out, right?”

I took his hand in mine. His arm was heavy with muscle, but lax, ready to cooperate, and a thrill shot through my lower belly, exploding in my heart.

Locking his first wrist against the headboard, I leaned down to him, my breasts pressed against his mouth through my nightgown. I worked his other wrist, my body humming with sweet ache. Vaughn didn’t try to touch me. He seemed enchanted, following my every move through heavy-lidded eyes.

You poor sod.

“Don’t worry, Good Girl. I’ll give you pointers. It’s not that hard to give head.”

“Suppose it’s going to be a lesson for both of us,” I said cheerfully, standing up and turning my back to him.

I waltzed toward my door, my heart beating so fast I could feel it in my throat. The atmosphere in the room changed and thickened with danger and anticipation.

I doubt you’ll call me Good Girl after tonight, Spencer.

“Where are you going? Get your ass back here.”

His tone held a threatening edge. But there was nothing he could do to me from his position, chained to my metal headboard. That was the beauty of the entire situation—his complete lack of power.

I flung the door open, stepping aside. Pope walked in—perfect timing—still wearing his gray, stained slacks and a dirty white shirt. He smelled of paint fumes, varnish, and labor.

“Spencer, mate. Fancy seeing you in a compromising position.” He wiped his face clean of sweat.

I looked back, watching Vaughn twist on my mattress, his arms locked above his head. He tugged, moving the bed an inch. Even though he didn’t wince, I knew the handcuffs must have cut into his wrists.

“Go eat cow shit, Pope.”

“Oh, I think I’ll settle for Lenny. She seems much more edible. Not to mention sanitary.” He snapped his fingers, pointing his index at Vaughn with an easy wink.

Vaughn’s eyes expanded, zinging with rage. It was the first time he’d looked genuinely disturbed. Stifling a giggle, I walked over to my drafting table, perching my bum at its edge and curling my fingers around its sides. Pope advanced toward me, peeling his dirty shirt off and throwing it onto the floor mid-stride.

“What the fuck is this?” Vaughn seethed from his spot on my bed, tugging at the handcuffs again.

It was the same bed he’d approached when I was weak and young and scared. The tables had turned, just like I’d promised they would.

And whaddya know? Spencer didn’t like the view from that angle.

Pope stopped about a foot from me, waiting for further instructions, his muscled back to Vaughn. We’d talked about this before my birthday. This was what I wanted. My present. Payback. I wanted Vaughn’s heart to bleed the way mine had that final day of school.