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“We can talk,” he says, loudly pulling the chair across from me out, “or I’ll just sit down right here.”

“Fine,” I huff, slamming my book shut as I stomp away from the table.

“Go to the far left,” he says. “No one ever goes back there.”

That makes it an even worse idea.

I reach the corner, where bookshelves block us from view on all sides, and lean against the wall. “Fine, I’m here. What do you want?”

“Are you really going to the dance with Alex?” he asks.

I could correct him, but then he’d miss the actual point. “Why wouldn’t I? Or are you the only one of us allowed to go? And why are you even talking to me? Shouldn’t you be off with Amanda somewhere?”

His eyes widen, then his mouth curves into a pleased half-smile. “Is that what this is about? I didn’t ask her to the dance. She asked me to go as friends. Weeks ago. Do you think I’d be messaging you if I liked someone else?”

I swallow down a sudden urge to cry. Either way, nothing I concluded this weekend has changed: Ford is never going to be a part of my future, and engaging in silly fantasies about him all the time is just taking my eye off the ball.

“It doesn’t matter,” I tell him, closing my eyes. “I need to study, and this is a waste of my time.”

When my eyes open, he’s closed the distance between us, standing so near I have to crane my head to see his face.

“Don’t fucking pretend that Friday was a waste of your time. You liked it,” he says. “A lot.”

His confidence, his arrogance, is maddening, so I’m not sure why it makes this thing in my stomach spark and tug. “I’m glad you think so,” I reply.

“I don’t think so.” His hand lands on my hip. “I know so. You were about to come when Mr. Scott walked in.”

I turn away to head to the table, and his hand tightens to hold me in place.

“What are you doing?” I ask.

He pulls me close until our bodies are flush, my back to his chest, just like we were in the closet. “I barely even touched you and you were about to come,” he whispers. “I thought about nothing else all weekend. I’m going crazy. I know it’s a bad situation for you, but it’s bad for me too, and I just...”

His hand begins sliding up my thigh, and I don’t say no. He reaches the strip of cotton between my legs and I gasp, sharp and uncertain. There’s a small stutter in his inhale at the sound.

His index finger circles on the outside of my panties while his mouth moves to my neck. The rigid outline of his erection glides against me, and I push backward toward it, wanting more.

“I want to watch you come on my hand,” he says. The words are bitten off, desperate. His fingers slip under the elastic of my panties, and I know I should stop him, but the moment they slide along my core I’m incapable of telling him to stop. No one has touched me here. Not even me, really. I suck in air, and a needy cry emerges on the exhale.

The sounds we’re making are far louder than they should be in the silent alcove. I’m embarrassed for only a moment, until he curses against my ear. “Fuck,” he groans. “That’s so hot. This is going to kill me.”

The metal of his belt clinks loudly as it opens, and then there’s the lightning-fast movement of his zipper coming down.

My heart races. This is all happening too fast. It shouldn’t be happening at all.

“No,” I say. “I’m a⁠—”

“I know. I won’t,” he says. With one hand he slips back under the elastic, playing with the wetness there, and with the other he holds himself against my panties, sliding, growing even harder and so ridiculously big I’m not clear on how sex could even work. Every third or fourth thrust, his tip pushes against my entrance, separated from it by my panties, and his breath hitches.

It’s the oddest combination of pleasure and terror, but I don’t stop him. Instead, my head falls back to his chest as he moves faster and faster, that circling finger of his so perfect, and his thrusts making some other note ring in my body, one that has every single muscle tensing with anticipation.

“Grace, you’re gonna make me come,” he says, a warning. He presses that circling finger inside me and I gasp for air as I shatter, clamping down so tight I’m not even sure he could pull free of me if he wanted. The breath catches in his throat and something hot and wet paints my underwear and sprays against the inside of my thighs.

It takes me a moment to realize that the wetness isn’t mine.

I should be horrified, but instead there’s something triumphant and euphoric in my chest. Later, I’ll undoubtedly feel guilty—this was so indecent I won’t even be able to admit it to God—but right now, I’m just confused, and pleased, and I wish I could hold onto every scrap of this memory for the rest of my life. His chest presses tight to my back, and I relish every labored breath.

“I—” He stops and pulls away slightly, reaching into his backpack. I start to adjust my skirt and he stops me.