I close my eyes.
“You like that?” I growl at her. Sapphire. Bouncing hard against the base of my cock so slick it’s gleaming in the lights. “That the best you’ve ever been fucked.”
“It is,” she cries. Almost sobs. “Y-you are.”
“Goddamn right,” I spit at her.
I reach around her hip and feel her shudder. Grip me tighter.
Perfect.
What can I say? Michelangelo paints ceilings. Michael Phelps swims laps. I fuck on camera.
“Scream,” I order, raking strokes against her clit. “Scream for me. Scream when you come, babyg?—”
Zap.
Click.
The lights go out. All of them.
CHAPTER 5
TINK
I usedto pride myself on having a pretty low-key beauty routine.
Now, as I turn the lock on the cluttered bathroom I share with four guys—fourotherguys, I guess—to get ready for my nightly 2 a.m. shower, I can’t help but feel I’ve reached a new high.
Or low.
I yawn in spite of myself, catching my reflection in the grungy mirror. I’ve gotten this reputation as a night owl, but it’s less that I like to stay up late and more that it’s the only time I can reliably get to myself, and not for any kind of regular alone time. This is my me time, the one part of every day where I’m literally and figuratively stripped down. When I don’t have to pretend.
So I try to make it enjoyable. Even if it’s…
I eye the grimy peach-colored tiles of the bathroom, the shower door that’s scaled over with probably years of hard water, the ramshackle mess of hair gels and shaving creams and crusty toothpaste tubes that crowd the top of the sink.
…less luxurious than I want.
I strip out of my clothes as quickly as I can. The other guys—well, most of them, since Blue stayed behind at the Lagoon likehe usually does—all tapped out somewhere around midnight, having tried and failed to lure some of the Mermaids over for an afterparty and subsequently settling for more beers and video games in the loft. Kit and Fox made it back to their room on their own, Pan needed a few kicks in the ribs to not pass out on the couch. Partially because he should sleep in a real bed, at least, and partially because I don’t want anyone wandering around when I come out for my shower. Myme time.
With my jeans and T-shirt off, I shed my boxers—surprisingly comfortable, especially compared to anything lacy—and suck in an anticipatory breath as I finally unfasten my binder for the day.
God, that first deep breath is likedrugs.
I only have two binders, one to wear and one to wash. The most I can own without feeling gross or feeling like I’m risking getting caught. The one that’s not on my body at any given time lives in the lockbox under my bed, along with the rest of my girly contraband: period stuff, skincare, my secret stash of sugary, fruity,deliciouscocktails-in-a-can that Tink can’t be caught dead drinking, and a swimsuit.
Swimming. That’s what I need, I realize as the first jets of water hit my skin. I close my eyes and tip my head back, already relaxing. A beach day. Something to get out of here for a little, clear my head, be…not myself, exactly, but just not so on guard all the time.
The whole reason I wanted to come to London Valley in the first place is to live by the beach. I had this vision of this sunkissed, salt-sprayed life: long days on the sand. Maybe learning to surf, or at least having a hot surfer boyfriend. A golden tan that somehow never turned into skin cancer or wrinkles.
My long hair bleached blonde and gold.
Nope. At that, I rip my eyes open. No time to waste on daydreams, not during shower time.
I grab my bottle of 3-in-1 from the caddy and squirt a teal, spicy-smelling blob into my palm to wash up. Since I can’t buy what I really want—something luscious and girly scented, vanilla cashmere or almond blossom—I go as cheap as I possibly can on personal care, because, well, who cares? I do allow myself some body lotion—Vaseline brand, unscented—out in my room, because guy or girl, I refuse to live with dry skin, and parked on my bedside table, accessorized with a roll of toilet paper I snagged from the bathroom…well, it looks like it has a role to play, is all I’m saying. And I have a razor, somewhere—a cheapie men’s two-blade Bic—but just for appearances.
Other than that, it’s combination shampoo-conditioner-body-wash that’s four bucks for 32 ounces and smells like whatever “Arctic Crash” is supposed to be.
