I don’t acknowledge his words. To do so would show that they get a reaction out of me. The image of him holding me down on the bed, feeding his cock between my lips, that arrogant smirk on his face the entire time…
A shudder moves through me at the thought, and I try to banish it, but it’s like I can’t. It’s there, playing like a movie in my mind on a repeat loop. He’d get no greater satisfaction than dominating me, and I’d…
I’d love every second of it.
God, what the hell is wrong with me?
“I’m going to get your clothes,” I tell him, my hand on the doorknob. “Don’t move.”
His soft chuckle follows me as I slip through the door.
I stomp down the hallway and into the laundry room, dumping the dirty towels in a giant bin. The dryer is still spinning and I open it, reaching in to feel his clothes.
They’re still pretty wet. It’s going to take a while still.
Frustrated, I slam the dryer door and hit the button, turning it back on. I watch the clothes spin and spin, chewing on my thumbnail, willing the clothes to dry faster.
I hate him so much. He’s fucking despicable. He has major issues, and clearly hates women. Has zero respect for them, especially me. And he’s surprised I could drop Elliot the idiot with one thrust of my knee? It had been easy. He dropped like a sack of potatoes, straight to the ground.
If Whit hadn’t shown up earlier though, Elliot would’ve got his revenge against me. Dread floods my stomach, making it churn at the thought of what he might’ve done.
Whit rescues me, yet he treats me like garbage. I don’t get it.
Is he a narcissist? Or maybe something else is wrong with him mentally. I wouldn’t doubt his entire family is completely fucked up. Sylvie is kind of weird, though at least she’s kind. My family is fucked up too, though—pretty sure everyone’s is at one point or another.
Voices sound in the hall and I startle, realizing that people are starting to return. I grab the clothes out of the dryer—they’re a little drier but not by much—and clutch them to my chest. No way can I leave them in the dryer for someone else to find.
I pause in the doorway, watching as girls pass by. None of them look in my direction. They’re all so good at following instructions. Whit told them to ignore me and they do.
He’s right. They’re all a bunch of mindless sheep.
Once there’s a lull in foot traffic, I dart out and make my way to my room, pressing flat against the door when a group of senior girls walk past me. Two of them are Caitlyn and Jane.
My so-called new friends from the first day of school.
“Slut,” one of them murmurs beneath her breath just before they all burst into laughter.
I say nothing, my face hot. If they knew who was in my room right now, they’d die of jealousy.
And then have confirmation that I am, indeed, a slut.
At least in their eyes.
Reaching behind me, I slowly turn the doorknob, barely cracking open the door before I slip back inside and turn the lock. The room is dark. Quiet. The lamp is off. The window curtains are pulled back, letting in the bright moonlight and I go to look outside, surprised at the clear skies above us.
The storm has completely moved on. Almost as if it never happened.
I go to the lump beneath the comforter and give his shoulder a rough shake, but he doesn’t respond. He doesn’t even move. I grip his shoulder again.
Nothing.
Rounding the bed, I come at him from the other side, staring at his battered face. The moon gilds his features in a silverly glow, and I realize the asshole is in a deep sleep. In my bed.
Of course, he looks beautiful. Despite the wounds and the black eye, his lips are soft and his eyes are closed and he looks so…young. Like a little boy.
Vulnerable.
I hate him.
I sit on the edge of the bed, a loud sigh escaping me. He doesn’t even flinch. I touch his nose. Tweak it. Poke at his bottom lip.
No response.
My eyelids are heavy and I toss his damp clothes on the floor. I’m so tempted to slip beneath the covers and sleep for a little while. This entire experience with Whit has left me mentally and physically exhausted. What’s the difference if he goes now or stays a little longer? It might be easier if he just sneaks out in the middle of the night, never to be seen or heard from again.
I couldn’t get so lucky.
Giving in, I tug the comforter and sheet back, and slip beneath them. Pull them up to my chin, and lie on my side. It’s a double bed, very narrow, and he’s sleeping on my preferred side.
Figures.
I study him in the moonlight through sleepy eyes, marveling at the realization that I have Whit Lancaster in my bed. Naked. Injured. Asleep. I despise him, yet I’m also glad for this moment. The two of us alone with no one else around to ruin it.
He can ruin it enough on his own.
What would it be like, to have this boy’s heart? I wonder as I slowly drift off to sleep. Impossible, is what I tell myself.
He doesn’t have one.
Ten
Summer
I wake up to fingertips on my cheek.
They walk a line on my face, one after the other. So light, I could almost believe it’s not happening.
But it is. I remember everything before I fell asleep. Seeing Whit. Bringing him to my room. Stripping in front of him—still can’t believe I did that—getting so pissed at him. He knows how to take something good and twist it into something awful. He self-destructs, and takes everyone else down with him.
It’s a horrible trait. But he’s a horrible person, so I shouldn’t be surprised.
He doesn’t seem so horrible right now though. I can feel his gaze on my face, heavy. Hungry. He touches the corner of my mouth. Skims my bottom lip.
Tingles rush through me and I’m tempted to part my lips, draw his finger inside and suck. That would surprise him. He’d probably love it.
That reason alone is enough for me not to do it. I’m still mad at him.
He touches my chin. Pinches it. As if he’s trying to wake me up and he’s frustrated it’s not working. My eyes pop open to find him watching me, his lips curled into a faint smile, his eye nearly a slit, the bruises around it even worse. “Wake up, sleepyhead,” he croons.
“Get out of my bed,” I tell him evenly.
“You’re the one who asked me to get into your bed in the first place,” he reminds me.
“Your invitation expired. Go away.” I’m about to roll over and show my back to him but he grabs hold of my shoulder, stopping me.
“You fell asleep.” He gently tugs, his grip strong, and I have no choice but to roll over onto my back. He scoots closer, hovering above me and I glare at him, hoping he can’t hear my heartbeat, which is currently racing. Or see how my breathing starts to accelerate at his nearness.
He’s in my bed. Naked. I can feel his body heat. I’m fully clothed, but naked beneath the hoodie and sweats. It would take nothing for him to strip me bare and have his way with me.
And I’d let him. Despite what happened earlier, when Elliot nearly attacked me. Despite the anger and the bitterness and the loathing I feel toward this boy in my bed right now, even though he saved me, I’d kill to know what it feels like, to have Whit Lancaster inside of me. Claiming me.