Moses would never have worn a Dillinger Escape Plan t-shirt that emphasized how broad his shoulders were or ripped black jeans that hung perilously low on his hips, but still. I duck around him, avoiding a head-on collision, when he pitches up in front of me. “If you’re going to be a shit again, you can leave me alone,” I say, marching past him.
We don’t have lockers at Wolf Hall—the banks of ugly metal boxes would really spoil the academy’s gothic chic, and the halls are too narrow besides. We do have sporadically placed cubbies, randomly slotted into the old building’s alcoves, though. They’re used for assignment drop-offs. Most teachers prefer us to submit our work electronically on the academy’s student portal, but there are still a few professors who want us to supply a physical copy of our work as well. Unfortunately, I have to drop off my latest biology paper in Dr. Killiman’s cubby right now, or it’s going to be late, and I refuse to drop a grade just so I can avoid one of Pax Davis’ pissy moods. I stop in front of the cubby and swing my bag around to the front of my body, focused on finding my paper, but I know Pax has pulled up, too, and is standing behind me.
“That was your Dad this morning?” he states.
“The one and only Robert Witton.”
“You brought a bag inside. You moved back into the girls’ wing?”
I cast a sharp sidelong glance at him, hands still feeling around inside my bag. “Yeah. I did.”
God, he’s so close. I can smell him. I can feel the heat wicking off his body. He towers over me, an inked and bellicose god; it looks like he’s trying to decide if he wants to smite me or kiss me. His top lip curls upward, his cool eyes flitting away to skip disinterestedly over the faces of the students who pass us by. “I figured you’d be under suicide watch,” he says.
My hands still inside my bag. That snide little remark he made about me throwing myself out of a window yesterday made me feel physically sick. And now this? He deserves far worse than the withering look I serve up to him. I should kick the bastard in the balls or something. “Fuck you, Pax.”
A quick grin flashes across his face. He pushes away from the wall where he was leaning, moving to stand so that he’s right behind me, his chest brushing up against my back. Bracing one hand against the wall above my head, his breath stirs my hair as he whispers into my ear, “You’d like that, wouldn’t you.”
Fact. No question in his voice.
“Just stop, okay. You made yourself perfectly clear yesterday in the dining hall.” A white-hot shiver rushes from the soles of my feet to the crown of my head. I try to push away and slip past him, but he’s too quick. He places his other hand against the wall, too, this time lower, right beside my hip. I’m trapped within the cage of his arms and there’s nothing I can do about it.
“Did I?”
God, how can I still crave his nearness after how shitty he was to me yesterday? What kind of crazy am I to still need him, when he made me feel so worthless? His presence is magnetic. If I’m within five feet of the guy, I can’t help but be drawn into his orbit. And I’m much, much closer to him than five feet now. His chest isn’t the only thing in contact with my body. I can feel him pressing up against my butt now, too, the beginnings of an erection swelling against my ass cheeks, and a bolt of unexpected fury rolls through me.
“Stop, Pax. Just—urgh!” I whir around inside the cage. “Stop.”
He’s deadly serious when he says, “I’m not doing anything.”
“You are! You know exactly what you’re doing, and it isn’t fair. Just…back off, okay?”
Being with him at Riot House the other day helped. He took my mind off all of the poisonous memories I’ve been shoving down, forcing out of my head. But that only works when he’s not bringing up what happened all of the time. If being around him makes me feel even worse, then what’s the fucking point?
He hums in my ear, and the vibration of the air leaving his lungs, passing over his vocal cords, carries through his chest into mine. I vibrate with him. I hate myself for the way that makes me feel. “I do want you to come to the house again. Tonight,” he tells me.
His voice is a hand in a leather glove, tightening around my throat. I can’t breathe around it, but the pressure of it, the feel of it on my skin…it drives me crazy. I close my eyes, finally pulling the stapled assignment out of my bag. I drop it quickly into Dr. Killiman’s cubby, so Pax won’t see how badly I’m trembling. “I’m not gonna do that.”
“You want to,” he purrs.
His dick is getting harder; I can feel it through my shorts. I can’t think. I can’t see straight. I won’t be able to hold myself upright much longer. “I…don’t.” My whispered words aren’t fooling anyone. They’re weak. I’m weak. God, this is torture. Around us, I can feel the watchful eyes of our classmates, spying on what’s happening in the recessed alcove. We’re almost hidden from the main flow of traffic down the hallway, but almost is very different from completely. People are watching. This little encounter is going to be all over the academy by the end of the day.
“You’re a filthy liar, Firebrand. This isn’t the way I want you to be filthy with me. I’d prefer you to be filthy with your mouth. With your cunt. With that tight little ass of yours.” His hand rests on my hip. I try not to gasp, but I’m shocked by the contact. I’d never expect him to touch me in public. The hand slides around the front of my body, resting on my belly in an almost possessive fashion. His fingers dig into my shirt. “On your knees for me… Hands tied behind your back… Like a good girl,” he whispers.
Oh shit.
Another rush rips through me—an explosion of sensation and heat that prickles like a blooming firework. What the hell is he playing at? I can’t figure him out. The intense desire he’s igniting in me is producing some very noticeable physical effects, though: I’m so turned on that I can feel how wet I am, between my legs. It’s impossible not to press my thighs together…
Screwing my eyes shut even tighter, I ask, “Aren’t there a million other girls you could be fucking with right now?”
I feel him nod behind me. “Yes.”
“Then…why are you doing this? Why bother?”
His fingers find the hem of my shirt and lift it up, slipping beneath the material. He begins to rub lazy circles right above the button that fastens my shorts. Suggestive, torturous, dangerous circles, that, applied to my anatomy four inches lower, would have me whimpering and begging for him to let me come.
“I’m doing it because it’s my prerogative,” he tells me. “Because I like to do it.”
I’m coming apart. The tension in my body is too much to handle. I let my head rock back. It rests on Pax’s chest, which seems to please him greatly. Using his other hand, he sweeps my hair over my shoulder, out of the way, and then slowly dips down, grazing the base of my neck with his mouth. “Fuck, Pax. Please…”
I feel his treacherous smile against my skin. “Fine. Since you asked so nicely, I’ll tell you the truth. I’m doing it because you’re a parasite, Presley Maria Witton Chase. You’ve set up shop inside my head and I can’t get rid of you. I tried forcing you out, but you just won’t leave, so I’m prepared to try another tactic. I’m gonna fuck you out of my system. And once I’ve accomplished that, I plan on forgetting your obnoxiously long name as quickly as humanly possible.”