“What about your parents? Who’s side are they on?”
I shift uncomfortably on the couch. “They claim to be Team Both Daughters, which I’m sure is code for Team Mandy But Can’t Tell Cora. I’ve only seen them once over the last few weeks and it was an awkward dinner without much conversation.”
“You’ve always thought your parents loved Mandy more than you, but I’ve never gotten that impression and I’ve known you a hell of a long time. They probably are on both of your sides.”
I try to squash the bitterness that tickles me. “Mandy can do no wrong in their eyes. She was the perfect prom queen with the perfect high school sweetheart, and I’ve always been the stubborn, nerdy kid who refuses to conform. Mandy always got the lavish birthday parties and the over-the-top praise: ‘Congratulations! Mandy learned to tie her shoes even though she’s nine. Oh, my God! Mandy got a B minus on her final exam. Wow! Mandy got her driver’s permit and only crashed once, and it was just a little crash’.” I pause to catch my breath, my resentment bubbling to the surface. “All I ever got was a pat on the back. Now, I’m the stain on the family—the daughter who gets kidnapped by a psychopath, the daughter who sleeps with her sister’s ex, and the daughter who overdoses on sleeping pills.”
Lily cowers away, holding up her hands. “Touched a nerve. Got it.”
“Sorry.” I cringe at my oversharing rant. “It’s the wine talking.”
She holds up the Kleenex box. “That’s why I brought these,” she quips. “And for the record, literally your only flaw has ever been liking N*SYNC over Backstreet Boys. Otherwise, you’re pretty perfect.”
We share a smile, the compliment washing away all of my inner turmoil for the time being. Before I can reply, my phone starts vibrating in my pocket.
It’s a text from Dean.
Dean: I miss you.
Lily yanks my phone away and reads the message, swooning instantly. “Dear God, that’s adorable. Guys only text me when they miss my vagina.”
“I’m sure that’s what he’s implying,” I shrug.
“It’s not.”
Lily starts texting back a reply and I panic, lunging for the phone. “Absolutely not. Give it back.”
She dives from the couch laughing, her thumbs frantically swiping over the keyboard. I chase her around the living room and almost tackle her like a linebacker.
“Okay, okay. Don’t be such a psycho. Here.”
Lily tosses me the phone and I check for damage.
Lily: I need your baloney pony.
“Lily! Damn you!” I curse, glaring at the message, then watching as my friend doubles over with laughter. “I hate you so much.”
A zing comes through and I force myself to open the message.
Dean: Hi Lily
My head is shaking back and forth, embarrassed by her immaturity, as I text my own reply.
Me: Sorry. She’s awful.
Dean: It was kind of funny
Me: No
Ugh. I toss my phone onto the sofa cushions as Lily comes down from her laugh attack. “How are you the worst and the best at the same time?” I ponder, plopping back down with a huff.
Lily shrugs, joining me. “One of my many talents, along with singing the alphabet backwards and gardening.”
I try to return my attention to the TV show that we’ve been completely missing when Lily’s elbow pokes me in the ribs. “Ouch. What?”
“Well?”
I stare at her, unblinking.
“Are you going to invite him over?”
I scoff, returning my focus to the screen. “No. It’s a bad idea.”
“So is drinking Aldi wine, but we do it anyway.”
“One bad decision is enough for me tonight.”
Lily lets out a sigh but doesn’t push the matter, curling up with one of my throw pillows and whispering, “If you say so.”
An hour later, Dean has me bent over the kitchen table, pounding into me from behind as my fingernails scratch along the wood. He tugs my hair back, twisting my face to his, and I chant his name against his lips—I know it drives him wild.
He snakes his hand around my middle, sliding it down my stomach until it reaches its destination between my legs. With my sweatpants around my ankles, I arch into his touch, moaning when his fingers find my clit. “Oh, God…”
Dean works me into a frenzy, trailing his lips from mine and attacking my throat with his tongue. “You’re always so wet. I fucking love it.”
I gasp out loud, already edging towards release as I press myself against the table. Dean sweeps his fingers up the nape of my neck, collecting my long hair between them and squeezing his fist, ramming into me harder, while still fingering me with his other hand.
Holy, holy, holy crap.
This shouldn’t feel this good.
Why does this feel so good?
“Come for me, Cora,” he demands, leaning forward on top of me, his chest to my back, thrusting his hips with impossible intensity.
I shatter.
I dig my nails into the kitchen table, surely leaving marks, as my body convulses around him, a cry escaping my lips.
Dean whispers against my ear as I come down, brushing my hair aside and slowing his pace, “That’s my girl.”
I’m hardly recovered when he pulls out of me and spins me around, lifting me onto the table and settling between my legs. He kisses me as he pushes back inside, hands planted on either side of me as I link my ankles behind his back. His thrusts are slow and even, and I already feel the pressure building again when he breaks the kiss to hold my eyes.
God, his eyes. They will be my undoing.
I look away, the feelings swirling inside me proving too much. Too intimate, too powerful, too real.
This can’t be more than sex.
Dean pinches my chin between his thumb and finger, gently turning my face back towards him. “Why can’t you look at me, Cora?” He’s still moving inside me, but not as hard. Not as fast. His strokes are languid and deliberate, almost like he’s trying to tell me something.
But the last thing I want to do is talk about our feelings when he’s balls deep inside of me, so I clasp his face between my palms and crash our mouths back together. I push my tongue between his lips and he lets me in, his hips moving quicker when our tongues begin to dance. I’m an arrow to his heart—a dagger to his defenses. He knows what I’m willing to give and he takes every piece, every breath, every accidental crumb.
And then we’re grinding against each other, nails scratching, tongues vicious and angry, bodies full of raw desperation. I open my mouth to speak, suddenly craving more. I’ll never know if it was the goddamn wine, or maybe I’m just irrevocably fractured, but three words spill from my mouth that make Dean go still: “Tie me up.”
He looks at me, a light sheen of sweat casing his brow, his blue eyes wide and troubled. He halts all movement, and even his breathing goes shallow. I stare up at him, wishing I could swallow those words back down.
He deflates then, like a child’s balloon or a wounded animal. Like I stole something precious right out of his hands. Dean pulls out of me and drops his forehead to mine as I sit there in silence, my legs still wrapped around him. “Fuck,” he mutters, but not out of anger—not out of spite. It sounds like hopelessness. He untangles himself from me and steps back, tugging his jeans up over his hips.