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4 Wake Me Up
Junior Year, Eva
“Mmm, Evie, you taste so good.”
It’s not only the fact Eddie’s mouth is a little too slobbery on my neck that makes my skin crawl. I also hate, hate, the way my name sounds on his lips.
Forced, fake…sleazy.
Actually, that might be me projecting onto him the way I feel about being in this truck, but whatever.
“Please,” I tell him for the millionth time. “Call me Eva.”
He abandons my neck—giving me a brief respite—to look me in the eyes with a confused expression. As if we haven’t had this conversation multiple times.
“But everyone calls you Evie?” He ends his statement with a questioning inflection.
Almost everything he says comes off unsure. It’s such an oxymoron that a guy who can’t let anything certain roll off his tongue should have the confidence of a Casanova in the dark cab of his truck, where no one can bear witness to his absolute lack of skill.
My smile is decidedly less confident. “Yes, but it sounds so infantile. Don’t you think it’s a little inappropriate…here?”
Laughter nearly escapes me as he clearly tries to decode my too-big-for-his-jock-brain vocabulary, but he douses my urge when his copper eyes turn feral.
“You’re right. Talking is the last thing we should be doing here.”
He uses his much taller frame to force me into a semi-reclined position, pressing my back against the passenger side door until the arm rest digs into my flesh to the point of bruising. My cry of discomfort goes unacknowledged as his mouth descends to its previous engagement of drooling on my neck.
I squirm against his chest, but his weight is no match for me. I can’t escape this predicament. Eddie has never seemed like he might be a physical threat. Taller? Sure. Muscular? Not even a little. Guess I should know better than to judge a book by its cover and make false assumptions.
Fear clogs my throat, making it difficult to speak. “Eddie, get off. You’re hurting me.”
“I’m hurting, too, baby. Fucking dying here.”
The sound of my nickname is bad enough with his skeevy voice, but hearing him call me something far more intimate brings bile into my throat. That nauseated feeling intensifies when he grabs my hand and directs me to rub his erection, which is pressed against his jeans.
There’s no possible way to control the shudder that courses through me at the unwanted contact. It’s not that I’m so naïve as to be completely unaware of male anatomy during arousal. It’s just…my lady bits are in no way responding to his pheromone overload.
Of course, the anti-Casanova mistakes my movement for something else entirely and releases my hand only so he can grind himself against me, seeking friction my body instantly rejects.
“Ohhh, yeah,” he moans into my skin. “You’re so hot for me. Turns me the fuck on?”
Again with the question-statement. Is he unsure if he’s turned on? Because his dick is rubbing against my thigh and telling a totally different story. If I’m lucky, he’ll come in his pants, and then this can be over soon.
Eddie turns his attention to my mouth, lobbing his tongue in like some kind of deranged slug. For as many girls as he’s supposedly dated, I expected a better teacher in the art of kissing. Disappointment seems to be a running theme in my life though, and this experience is no exception. While it’s somewhat hypocritical to judge him for something I’m not very practiced at either, at least I have the common sense to swallow rather than give him a drink of my saliva.
Making the best of a bad situation is something I have experience with, and if nothing else, French-kissing with Eddie has taught me what not to do. The hope he would follow my lead has been dashed time and again on our past several dates, but I’m nothing if not stubborn. If he insists on parking after every date, then I’m going to use it for my own personal research. I open my mouth wider against his, battling his tongue for dominance. He relents and allows me entrance.
No sooner have I managed a nice, stroking rhythm in his mouth than images of blue-green, enigmatic eyes, a dimpled, shy smile, and sandy-brown hair burn through my brain. My fingers thread through sticky locks laden with too much gel, and the spell breaks. My eyes pop open as Eddie resumes his wet tongue-fucking. Even in the dark, the image before me is nothing like what my mind conjured up. Eddie is tall and lanky, with a typical basketball player’s physique. He wears his dark-brown hair on the long side, and it usually flops down over his forehead. His amber eyes are often full of mischief, and his cheeks are smooth.
No dimples to be found here, folks. Move along.
He’s everything Rob is not. Including dull, witless, selfish, and completely horny at all times.
What started out as innocent flirting to dispel the rumors I might be a lesbian at school turned into Eddie making me feel not only beautiful but wanted. That attention went to my head and quickly spiraled out of control. Just because Eddie made it publicly clear he wanted me didn’t mean any of the other guys at school saw things his way. More likely than not, they wonder what in the hell he sees in me.
Eddie’s not a bad guy. He’s just not the guy for me, in spite of his efforts to convince me otherwise.
Blinking back tears and struggling to breathe, I break off his latest attempt to drown me. His leech of a mouth migrates south again. If he doesn’t stop soon, he’s going to leave hickeys all over me, and I absolutely don’t want to deal with the amount of concealer necessary to hide that evidence. That’s a lesson I learned the hard way after our fourth date.
