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He looks over his shoulder, the opposite way of where I’m sitting, toward his friends, and his neck shows its strength.
He’s peeled a dress from my body.
He’s tugged me on top of him.
But I have yet to witness the depth I imagine his voice holds.
Is it low and gravelly or crisp and clear?
Oh my god, why does it matter?!
I place my elbows on the tabletop and use my hands as blinders, blocking out any and all things from right to left.
The teacher has us watching a ridiculous film about the safeties of the kitchen, anyone with a decent set of parents or solid caretaker should already know, so I slip from class and head to the bathroom.
I text my sister to see how her first college class went, and all she sends back is a snooze emoji, so I know she doesn’t have the time to help me pass mine. Stuffing my phone in my pocket, I step out the door, and come face-to-face with Beretta.
I jump, but quickly rebalance. “Okay. You really need to dial back this whole Joe Goldberg thing. It’s getting a little weird now.”
“Weird would be admitting I know what color your bedroom’s painted.”
My brows furrow, a subtle hint of panic curling in my abdomen and his far too mindful ass senses it.
His grin widens. “Ask me, Trouble, see if I’m bluffing.”
“And give you the satisfaction of answering? Negative.”
I shoulder past him, and his laughter looms in my wake. I swear it follows me clear into the hall, leading to the classroom, or maybe it’s an illusory echo that’s bounding off the walls as it cuts off completely when a tall, shadowy figure slips into my path.
Electric blue eyes collide with mine.
And then they snap over my shoulder, right as a hand closes around my mouth.
I glare, my fingers flying up to grip the ones forcing me quiet.
Arsen slips from the class door a few feet away, pausing just outside of it, my bag hanging from his fingers.
Ransom’s strong and sturdy chest pushes into mine, driving me against Beretta at my back. “Come with us.”
My ‘fuck you’ is a muffled, broken, and pretty pointless protest since they can’t make it out, but I think he interprets my knee slamming into his nuts for what it is.
He growls, his left hand bolting down to grip his cock. He’s so close, my outfit so thin, that the shape of his knuckles can be felt against my pelvis and my ass cheeks clench.
The palm over my lips twitches.
“I’ll rephrase.” Ransom’s covert gaze sharpens. “Come with us or we’ll post a spicy little picture on social media.” When my brows furrow, he adds, “One taken in a dressing room bigger than my bedroom... right as a certain dress hits the floor...”
At first, I don’t react and his hand disappears in his pocket.
He pulls his phone toward his face, chuckling as I reach out to smack it away, a smug expression taking over him, yet something much darker is hidden in his liquid eyes.
“That’s what I thought. Now.” He steps back, tipping his head. “Close your eyes.”
I attempt to yank free once more, but lips press against my ear in the same moment, and my body freezes in response.
“Do what he says, Trouble... or we might have to serve you some.”
My toes curl in my heels, and I tell myself it’s in uncertainty.
This is kind of fucked up, isn’t it?
They’re strangers and talk about coming on strong.
Not that I’m not used to it, with privilege comes, well, a warped idea that you can do as you please... but I’m not getting an ‘above all’ attitude from this group. More anarchist than anything.
But they’re not murderers, right?
Even my mother would agree there’s nothing wrong with hanging out with new people, granted they’d likely make the ‘do not engage’ list. And I have complained enough about days blending together. The fact is, now that school is in session, it’s guaranteed to get worse until it’s over, and the end begins.
What’s a few hours with them going to hurt? Nobody learns anything during the first week of school anyway, and I’ve already submitted my summer essays for all my AP courses. I know what the reading schedule is.
Let’s not forget the supposed picture. So really, this is not me agreeing.
This is me doing as my mother instructed and avoiding scandal by practicing her favorite motto.
By any means necessary.
As if sensing my crumbling resolve, that, let’s be honest, isn’t all that strong to begin with, Ransom’s expression grows a cocky kind of confident, but he holds in his smirk well enough.
I lower my hands, latching on to Ransom’s shirt, and close my eyes, even though I’m not sure what purpose it serves.
As quick as I do, he removes his hold, and only after they’re sure I won’t peek, does the hand leave my mouth.
