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Author: Robin York
I want to tell him that tonight he has to trust me to know what I want, instead of making up my mind for me.
He’s not in charge of me. He never was.
We were never going out. We weren’t friends. And I haven’t spent every hour since I last saw him two nights ago feeling brokenhearted, furious, betrayed.
Behind him, Scott is waiting. Hopeful Scott. Nice, ordinary, possible Scott. A guy I could take home to meet my dad. He must have driven all the way from Carter tonight for me.
It’s a shame Scott’s not who I want.
I reach out, grab West’s wrist, and drag his hand to my chest. “This is a good spot. ”
Our eyes meet. He stuffs the bill inside my coat, down into my cleavage, his long fingers tamping it like an explosive.
I haven’t been this close to him since before break. Only in my dreams. Only in my bed in the dark, remembering the sound of his voice in my ear, the heat of his body, the slide of his tongue.
The whistle blows. “DRINK!”
I keep my eyes on West as I bend down to take the shot. He doesn’t drink his. He just watches me.
He watches me swallow it.
He’s watching me when I open my eyes.
Maybe it’s because I’m drunk, but I don’t think so. I think it’s because I’m tired of doing what everyone expects me to. I’m tired of waiting around to be claimed, telling myself it’s what I want.
I’m tired of being afraid of what might happen.
It already happened.
So I reach across the tracks, leaning way over with my ass in the air, pick up his shot, and knock it back with my eyes closed.
Then I look right into his eyes. I lick my lips, slow and seductive.
And that’s all it takes.
West reaches out, fists his hands in my coat, and yanks me into him. We meet at the mouth.
It’s the most obscene kiss of my life. Deep and hard, gasping hot, sticky-sweet, messy.
It turns out that West doesn’t even need words to make the point he came here to make.
Mine, his mouth says. Mine, mine, mine.
But I’m not. I’m my own. And I grab his hair, pull it, scratch his neck, punishing him for not getting that. For doing this, for never having done this before—I don’t know. Punishing him for torturing me.
It goes on, and I’m vaguely aware of somebody whooping. Maybe lots of somebodys. I don’t care. My hands clench and unclench at his hips. He’s saying my name. Kissing down my neck to my throat. He’s catching his breath, pressing his forehead against mine.
And then he’s standing up, leaving me cold. Alone.
He shoots a glare at Scott and walks away.
It’s only then that I understand how deeply, righteously, incandescently furious I am.
I’m stripped to my bra, dancing in a heaving mass of shirtless, sweaty, smiling, grinding women.
I’m safe, and I’m drunk, and I’m tired of men writing their claims on my body.
