Ricochet (Addicted 1.5)

I breathe in and shake off my trembling hands. I shuffle into the apartment and spot Daisy by the silver refrigerator with a dizzying array of letter magnets attached. Someone spelled cum with me. Clever.

Daisy sips from a red Solo, now filled with punch, and chats with a tall Italian model, his chocolate hair thick and his smile insanely bright. As I approach, she says a quick goodbye and hesitantly flips her phone over in her palm.

“What is it?” I ask.

“Something weird just happened. I don’t know…” She takes another swig of punch and licks her lips. “Ryke texted me.”

Oh shit.

“I mean, I didn’t even think he noticed me.”

As far as I remember, Ryke has met Daisy once at my family house in Villanova, a ritzy suburb outside of Philly, and it was more of a wave from afar than a true greeting. “What’d he want?”

“To know what party I was at. I gave him the address.” She shrugs. “You think he likes me or something?”

“…I don’t know, Dais. He’s twenty-two, and he’s not the kind of guy that would hit on a fifteen-year-old.” Because those guys are perverts.

Her lips downturn into a deep frown. “Yeah, I guess. But why would he ask me where I was? I mean, I do look older, Lily. And I make my own money…”

“You’re still fifteen,” I tell her. “He’s still twenty-two.” This needs to be squashed right now before he gets here. I cannot have her thinking she has a chance with him. No, no, no. I itch my neck. Maybe I am getting chicken pox.

She groans. “It’s so f**king frustrating. I feel older than I am half the time. Some people treat me like I’m in my twenties, and then I go back to school, and I’m babied again. I’m given respect, and then it’s taken away from me. Over and over and over.” She downs the rest of her drink.

“I’m sorry,” I say, not knowing what else to tell her to make her feel any better. “You’re close to being sixteen, and then you’ll only have two more years.” I lamely shake my hands like faux pompoms.

She lets out a weak laugh. “You’re so corny.”

I shrug. “It made you laugh.”

“It did,” she nods.

“How did Ryke get your number anyway?”

“I didn’t give it to him. Maybe he called Rose and asked her for it.” She pauses. “So…why do you think he’s coming over?”

I inhale a strained breath, my muscles tightening. “I’m not sure,” I lie.

“I guess we’ll see.” She stares at her empty cup. “I’m going to get a refill. How about you go hang out with Bret?” She tilts her head to the scarily pretty blond guy that I dodged.

“Getting rid of me?” I joke. “Am I not that fun?”

She smiles. “I just don’t want to leave you here alone. I’m the one who asked you to come, after all. And it may take me awhile to escape the punch bowl.” She nods to the big tub full of red liquid and sliced pineapples. “See Jack over there.” I spot the black-haired, European guy that I noticed before.

“Yeah?”

“He’s a talker. I can’t ever get away from him, and I feel guilty when I try. It’ll take me probably ten minutes.”

“I can come save you,” I suggest.

She shakes her head and tucks her hair behind her ear. “No, no. I have it handled. Have fun. Mingle,” she tells me again. As if mingling is the solution. It is not.

My palms sweat and my nerves jostle as she disappears. I really want to go follow her, but she basically said do not follow me, Lily. Didn’t she? I swallow down my anxiety and accidentally lock eyes with a dark-skinned model, his biceps bulging as he sets two palms on the alcohol table.

I bite my fingernails, losing control. Maybe I should try to calm myself. Go off and do my own thing. Find someone…Bret…

No.

My body thrums with the usual cravings that I’ve denied myself for seven whole days. The only thing that will satiate the nerves, the fear, and everything that balloons my dizzy head is sex.

Sex is the solution.

But instead of picking a male model to throw myself at, I focus on the bathroom. Go there and you’ll feel better, I think. Over and over. I don’t need a boy. I can help myself.

So I head to the bathroom in the little hallway. After waiting in a semi-long line, I lock the door and settle on the toilet seat. I try to remind myself that I accomplished this ritual in far grosser places. I wiggle my shorts and panties to my ankles.

I take a small breath and relax and find the throbbing spot with my fingers. Closing my eyes, I drift into my mind, transporting myself from this party to other steamier places.

I picture Lo. I recreate a not-too-distant memory where we were together for real.

The lights had dimmed; the movie trailers had ended, and the opening credits were rolling. In the blackness, I tried not to concentrate on Lo’s heavy breath, the way his arm and leg pressed firmly into mine. His eyes fixed to the screen, not acknowledging the aching tension with a look towards me. Instead, his right hand skillfully roamed my leg, silently telling me to focus on the film. Even if the theater was empty, being secluded in the back row did not help ease my desires.

His hand rubbed the bareness of my knee, edging closer to my thigh with each passing minute. I squeezed them tight, the tension mounting with unbearable slowness. I inhaled shallow, sharp breaths, waiting for the inevitable plunge of his fingers, wanting so much more.

He was such a tease. That has never changed.

His hand drifted up and up. Under my skirt, touching the soft fabric of my panties. My mouth fell open as his finger brushed the pulsing spot. So light. Not enough force or pressure. I squirmed and ached and resisted the urge to cry out for more.

Silence. Darkness. The fear of being caught. That was the tantalizing atmosphere we were playing with. I swallowed hard, keeping my head towards the screen, but the images flashed blankly at me. I was lost in these deep, deep feelings.

My heart quickened in fear at the thought of someone walking in. Ushers randomly checked the theater, and I didn’t want to be banned or arrested. But I lost the strength to say no the moment his palm caressed my knee and slid upwards.

I sunk low in my seat and covered my eyes with my hand. My head naturally started tipping backwards as his fingers stroked my wet, sensitive mound.

“Lo,” I cried in a soft breath, a little choked.

His parted lips brushed my ear so slowly I nearly came right there. And then he whispered, “Stay still. Don’t moan.”

I needed him to fill me. And as if on cue, his fingers dove inside, his thumb making circles on my clit. A breath caught in my throat. Don’t moan. Ohhh…

The comedy in the background wasn’t loud enough to drown out future noises that I knew would come. No way could I inhale these sounds. One already escaped, sharp and unrestrained.

He no longer focused on the film. His lips skimmed the nape of my neck, but the darkened theater masked his movements. I just felt him. The fullness of his lips, the way his arm brushed against my breast, pulsing his fingers in a toxic rhythm.

I felt the cli**x coming like riding up the hill on a rollercoaster. Take me, I wanted to scream. I held it in. I swallowed my moans and gripped the armrest to my left. My mouth opened as he hit the right spot. I bucked a little, my toes curling and a layer of sweat gathering.

Oh no.

Instinctively, I clenched my legs tight together, putting his hand in an uncomfortable vice, anything to subdue the sounds that were about to leak from my lips and get us caught.

He kissed my temple and then whispered, “I need my hand, love.”

My eyes were shut tight, and I shook my head repeatedly. No, no, no. If I was supposed to come without screaming then he couldn’t do that right now. I had to…compose myself first. An insane part of me thought about removing his hand altogether and straddling his waist, getting something more substantial to feed this need.

His free hand gently skimmed my neck, and then his lips met mine, kissing so deeply and so hard that the insane part of me won out. I wanted his c*ck inside of me, completely, and I didn’t give a damn about where I was. Hurriedly, I reached over to undo his zipper, fumbling in the dark for the entry.

His lips detached from mine, and he snatched my wrist to stop me. He leaned into my ear once more, his breath tickling my sensitive skin. “I want my other hand first.”

I hesitated for a brief second before I relaxed my thighs and relieved the pressure from his hand. I went back to searching for his zipper, but then Lo pushed his fingers faster and harder inside of me.

My eyes fluttered, my back arched, and the cry I had been avoiding came out like I had reached the pinnacle of all pinnacles.

Tricky bastard.

I thought that was it, but he kept his fingers in place, and my whole body skyrocketed again. And again. I leaned forward from the sudden waves, and clutched his hard bicep and cotton shirt, his arm still pressed strongly against my chest, gliding down below, disappearing between my legs. Just thinking about the way he was inside of me sent me spiraling.

He slid his free hand over my mouth, blocking out the noises that persisted and rocked through me. One after the other. My body shuddered and wouldn’t let up. Not when he would shift a little, touching a place that put me into a new tailspin.

Any fear of an onlooker was drowned by the ecstasy that filled my head. Clinging to him in desperation. In vital, palpable need.

I no longer craved for something more. He was enough.

“Lily!” Yes.

“LILY!” The door bangs with an angry sound. No.

My eyes snap open back to the present moment. The house party. I’m in the bathroom, my forehead sweaty. My eyes had been halfway rolled in the back of my head, almost about to cli**x with the memory.

I have yet to hit my sweet spot. The tension burns, but Ryke’s voice scares me enough to jump off the toilet like it zapped me. I hurry and dress. “Coming!” I tell him and cringe almost immediately. Really? I couldn’t choose any other word?

“I hope not,” Ryke says, his voice so close that I picture him leaning a shoulder against the door frame.

My cheeks welt in an ugly red. I wash my hands with plenty of soap and peek at the mirror. Besides my flushed face, I look presentable. So far, I’ve been trying to eliminate p*rn from my life, not fantasies. I shouldn’t be ashamed, but my stomach knots anyway.

That memory I focused on, I love. Because I later found out that Lo had paid the manager for a private screening of the movie, buying each and every ticket that would have filled the theater. He planned to arouse me. He planned to satiate my needs in a new way. Maybe Rose would call that enabling, but right now, it’s one of the sweeter memories in my spank bank.

As soon as I open the door, a girl with jet-black hair mumbles, “bitch,” and barrels ahead, shoving me into the nearby wall. Okay, that was not necessary. She slams the door, and then I glance up to see the aggravated, curving line of guys and girls—hands on their hips, eyes in tight glares.

My rash-like flush burgeons across my arms. Hopefully they believe I was puking up the punch, not fingering myself.