Our eyes meet and hold for a long, precarious beat. I run a hand down the curve of his bicep and shift my hips, planting my feet on the bed. He sinks in deeper, a teeth-clenched grunt wiping away the smirk.
I’ve been afraid of feeling for so long, but now I can’t get enough of the tug in my chest. I can’t get enough of him. The long cords of muscle down his back, the pebbled scars that unite us, the curve of his ass, his breath, the sweep of his tongue. Sweat builds between us, and it’s sticky, messy, noisy, and god, so very real.
That’s what I’ve been scared of: real.
The way Reyn McAllister's hips drive into my body is achingly real. The way he sets my nerves on fire, the way he tastes, the way he touches me—god, the way he looks at me, so soft and intense, like I’m the only thing that exists here and he’s so grateful for it. His thumbs hold me down, anchoring my body so that my desire can build.
The sounds coming from me are unexpected; grunts and moans, words I can’t place, sharp fricatives. Slowly, we fall into a rhythm—our rhythm—one that’s coursed between us from the beginning. It all led to this. To this pounding. This pain. This pleasure.
His hips buck harder, frantic, and I know he’s close. I can see it in the pucker of his brow, the tremor in the arm that’s holding him up. “Baby,” he groans through gritted teeth. His sweaty forehead lands on my neck, mouth hot on the skin of my collarbone. He pushes out a long, raggedly whispered, “Fuuuuck,” before coming, back ramrod straight.
He collapses on me with heaving breaths, and I swear I can feel his thudding heartbeat against my chest. Before I have a chance to process the weight of him, solid and sure, his hand dips between my legs, circling my wet, aching clit. My body shudders from the sensitivity. It’s overwhelming. Too much.
“It’s—” I start, wanting to beg him to stop, to say that it’s enough for one day, but he leans over me and swallows my breath with a kiss. I sink and just when I think I’m going to drown, he pulls away and travels down my body, ultimately replacing his hand with his mouth. My hips buck, and his hands slide under my ass, tilting me upward. This, god this, is nothing like I’ve ever felt before. My orgasm, coiled tight, releasing like a pounding heartbeat, is so close, so near, that when it finally happens it’s like a breaking wave, crashing hard. My head presses into the pillow, heels digging into the mattress. My nails sink into his skin, needing something to hold onto so I don’t get washed away.
When I open my eyes, he’s looking down at me, lips shiny, curved into a smirk.
The feeling in my chest, in the pit of my stomach, I recognize it. It’s fear.
Not of pain. Of how much I love Reyn McAllister. I’d always thought we were connected, linked. But now? Now there’s no going back.
Homecoming Friday is a big day. There’s a tangible buzz in the air of Preston Prep. Dates are set, dresses are bought, and the pep rally scheduled, and even if it only means getting out of last period, what’s not to love?
But none of that matters to me.
I’m flying high. So fucking high. Way better than any drug I’ve ever taken. I’m high on Reynolds McAllister and from the smug look he gives me when I pass him on the way to Art, he feels the same way.
I pass Caroline on the way to my seat and wave hello, while ignoring Syd’s too-loud laughter coming from the other side of the room. She’d moved to another table last week, which leaves an empty chair next to mine. The bell is about to ring when a body slides into it.
“Hey, Vandy,” George says. “No one’s sitting here, right?”
I look around, shrugging. “Nope, it’s all yours.”
“Cool, cool, cool,” he mutters, pulling his sketch pad and pencil pouch out of his backpack. He zips and unzips the pouch a few times, dipping his fingers inside, yet never retrieving a pencil. I get my own pencil and eraser out and start on the morning assignment.
“So, I was wondering,” George says, finally having chosen a pencil, “if you’re going to the dance with anyone?”
Half-focused on the assignment, shading technique, I