He sits with his back angled in the curve of the chaise, one leg bent, the other stretched along the velvety material. His left arm is draped along the back of it, the remote sitting loosely in his palm while the fingers on his right hand glide along Arsen’s naked neck, who sits on the carpet just before him, his back pressed against the thing, both absentmindedly watching TV.
“Seem obvious now?” Ransom whispers beside me.
I don’t look away from the two, but nod.
“Yeah,” I say quietly. It does.
The looks, the sound of lips locked in the dark bathroom that day...
“At Beretta’s when they were boxing...”
Ransom chuckles softly. “Oh yeah, they almost went for it.” He grins, and I look up, meeting his eyes. “Arsen gets horny when they box. Every time.”
I laugh silently, lowering my head back down.
We’re lying on my bed, him pushed up on the headboard, while I’m perched on a pillow under his right arm.
They seem so content, calm and... complete, as if they need nothing else in the world, when they don’t have much to begin with.
Or maybe they believe they have everything because they have each other?
It’s such a dangerous ideal, happiness.
“Do they love each other?” I wonder.
“They’re it for each other, if that’s what you mean.”
I nod, maybe that’s what I mean.
Beretta’s hand falls over Arsen’s shoulder, and Arsen lifts his, lacing their fingers together.
“They’ve never been like this in front of me,” I speak softly, a small smile on my face.
“You saw one suck the other’s dick; I’d say they’re comfortable around you.”
I gape, flopping onto my back with a laugh that’s a little louder than I meant for it to be, and the others look our way curiously.
But as they stare, a tenderness slips over them both.
Their eyes meet mine, moving to Ransom’s, and as if they’re one, they both nod, small curls hitching the corners of their mouths and then turn back to the screen.
Something cracks in my chest and I flick my gaze to the TV, uneasy.
This is... a lot.
Because for the first time in maybe ever, I too have a sense of comfort, of calm, and it’s nearly enough for a part of me to want to kick them out, but the larger part, the buried, reckless part—the part that I got from my real father—never wants to leave this room.
That part wants to hold on to the boy at my side and give him things I’m not so sure I’m capable of, but he makes me wish I were.
He makes me want to be.
He makes me wish I was in control of what I want.
Ransom has never expected a thing of me, was there when he had no reason to be, and seems to enjoy the messed-up side of who I am. He doesn’t bend at my will, but he doesn’t discount my voice either.
Ransom being Ransom senses when I slip inside my mind and get lost there.
He scoots lower on the bed until his eyes are level with mine.
Perched on his elbow, he stares down at me.
He’s incredibly sexy, far from pretty, but rough and alluring in only a way he can accomplish.
Without realizing, my hand lifts, my fingertips ghosting over the edge of his sharp jaw, and he dips his head, so his lower lip can get a taste of me.
His blue eyes search mine, for what I’m not sure, but I think he finds it as his mouth curves with rawness, softening his features.
“Beretta told you,” he whispers.
My ribs constrict. I’m not sure if he’s talking about his sister or about his own struggles, and I know there is more to be told, but I nod.
“You know it was only me, right? That they were never inside you? It was only me.”
He scowls at his own words, as if pained by guilt or embarrassment, but I reach up and wipe it away with my thumb.
“Yeah, I know,” I breathe, and attempt to settle him a little. “...but they did touch me.”
I fight my grin, but it spreads rapidly, and Ransom growls playfully, gripping my hand before it can fall and pinning it above my head as he climbs on top of me.
My legs decide to fall open for him and he eases between them, his cock hard and ready and gliding along the thin fabric of my sleep shorts.
He grips the blanket, tugging it up over our heads, and I briefly register the lights in the room dimming as the volume on the TV grows louder.
Ransom smirks, freeing himself from his sweats and pushing my shorts aside, the head of his hard-on teasing my entrance.
“You shouldn’t have let me fuck you.”
I push into him, sucking in his tip and trying for more of his length. “Why not?” I pant.
“Because I don’t see how I can ever stop.” He stares at me, right into my eyes.
My sharp ache hits my ribs, twisting and tightening my lungs, but it’s confusing because my mind is full of him.
He said he can’t stop, but it’s only the end of October.
We have time for this.
For us.
My palms plant on his chest, wrapping around his back, and I pull him to me, whispering against his lips, “So don’t.”
Closing the door behind him, Ransom reaches over, lifting his backpack and my bag from the back seat, but when I reach out for it, he glares and hooks it over his arm.
Grinning. Face forward, we head toward the school. With Arsen and Beretta at our sides, we climb the first steps, where Scott, Dax, and a few others stand, chatting. Amy and Sammie among them.
I wait for Ransom to grow stiff at my side, but he doesn’t, not even when their heads do a double take as they notice we’re approaching.
Amy is trying to keep from frowning, but a smirk plays on her face, as if she’s still winning—as if this is a contest—since she had him alone and assumes I haven’t.
Sure, she screwed him once where no one could see, but there’s a difference.
She never had him; she merely fucked him.
I’ve had him twice and I have him now.
Ransom chooses the moment we are but two steps from passing them to slip his hand into mine, pull it to his lips and bite at my knuckles.
I couldn’t hold my grin in if I tried, and I don’t care to.
I do meet Amy’s eyes, and I could laugh at the wide, sheer shock in them.
I lift my hand, waving with my fingers like a spiteful bitch, but I don’t care.
Yesterday, I made a choice in front of everyone, my place in their world, my world, or another.
I chose them.
I chose him.
The thing about spoiled, holier-than-thou teenagers is they never acknowledge a loss for what it is, but pretend the situation, whatever it may be, is the one they favor.
The boys and I have become invisible, or so the others wish us to believe, when it’s obvious they stare from the corners of their eyes, continuing to do so as the day goes on.
At lunch, when Ransom’s body frames mine on the back of the bench-style seat, they make it a point to face the opposite direction. They couldn’t possibly be caught staring, that would be admitting it bothers them that I’m no longer sitting at their table where, as the unspoken rule goes, my bank account deems I belong.
Cali and Jules seem to be the exception, but even so, they stick to ‘their people’.
I look from Arsen to Beretta, who sit close to each other, laughing and joking, and Arsen catches my eye, nodding his chin, so Beretta turns to look at me, but he can’t keep himself from looking up at Ransom.