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“Then keep kissing me,” I murmur, “because it’s the only thing guaranteed to make me happy.”
He complies with all his calm English gentility, his mouth slowing the kiss down to sweet, spark-inducing basics, his tongue seeking out mine. In a flash, he’s picking me up and I’m gripping my legs around his waist, my school shoes digging into his back. As he leads me to the wall, I run my hands through his soft hair, noting that it’s longer now than Lochkelvin’s ever known it, long enough to graze the lobes of his ears, and I wonder… I wonder if this is his protest against his upbringing, his own petty fight against his father’s rigorous standards. Because whatever it is, in my highly shallow opinion, it suits Rory just as well as the smart black blazer hugging his body.
My back slams against the wall, and I hiss the blissful pain straight into Rory’s feasting mouth. I tighten my legs around Rory, grinding against his front, undulating into the firm palms propping my backside. Moans spill from my mouth, and we’re not here. We’re not in Lochkelvin, least of all this poky bedroom, but we’re back at the plushBeaumontand Luke’s nestled between my legs and licking me soundly — or we’re in the loch past midnight, and Finlay’s right behind me, scoring my flesh with nails and teeth…
Our kiss is messy and chaotic and almost, at times, gravity-defying. A hand is shoved inside my blouse, squeezing my breasts like it’s urgent, like it’s a necessity, the same instant I lick a hot trail up the column of Rory’s exposed neck, laving his ear with my tongue, my fingers toying with the subtle wave at the ends of his hair.
And then there’s a knock on the door.
“Fuckoff,” Rory mutters against my mouth, though the chances of the person on the other side hearing it are remote as I swallow his protests with my tongue. Rory’s groan is a deep, masculine growl that makes my insides tremble.
“It might be important,” I mutter, though I know it’s not, not when Rory’s here with me.
Rory’s gray eyes examine me before giving a reluctant, curt nod. He lowers me down to the floor and it takes a moment for the world to readjust, as everything seems to spin around me. My chest is heaving — as is Rory’s — and our uniforms are a mismatch of the unbuttoned and askew. We’re the very picture of debauchery.
“What is it?” I ask toward the door, trying to ignore the strange high pitch of my voice as I straighten my blouse. I’m about to rebutton it, but Rory shakes his head. As though it’s a command, my arms drop to my sides. His eyes sparkle so intently, weighed heavily with meaning about what he wants to do to me, that I have to grind my thighs together to soothe the hot pulses between them.
He positions himself behind me, inching close enough that his erection presses insistently against me. His hands roam across my front, down past my hips and gradually up my skirt. One hand dives beneath my blouse again, clutching at my breast. Another winds over my inner thighs, inflaming everywhere it lands before making a beeline for my clit. As he massages the tight nub, I whine, planting my head back against his shoulder. Instead of giving me solace, Rory ramps up the pressure and presses warm, shiver-inducing kisses at my exposed neck.
It feels like falling, but Rory’s arms are tight enough that I could stay here forever. I could stay here and shatter at his touch, which is what I so desperately want to do.
We’re dancing together. A lewd dance that would get us chucked out of every ballroom up and down the land, but being around Rory… Rory touching me like this? I can’t deny it. It’s effortless and I’m liberated — exactly as I am when dancing.
“You do know I can heareverything, right?” Arabella’s snippy voice filters through the wooden door, and I suppress my sigh. Of course.Nowit’s time for my dressing-down. Her existence should throw a bucket of cold water on the situation between me and Rory, but if anything, Rory only drags me closer to his body, and the only sighs that I sing afterward are happy ones of sweet, sweet pleasure…
Rory’s fingers travel across the cotton covering my folds. He rubs small circles into the perfect place, sending spirals of pleasure up and down my body.
I’d sag against him but his forearm locks me to the spot. He manages to tease my clit and my nipple at the same time, and I don’t know how I’m still standing, I don’t know why my knees haven’t yet buckled when I can feel my thighs quaking around Rory’s determined hand.
“Hellooo?” Arabella says, and I swear I stop breathing. Rory doesn’t. He chuckles darkly into my ear, and the sound is one of such foreboding that my core clenches in an instant. That sound is like a prelude to chaos — only the chaos is my body.
Arabella’s existence is egging him on. Rory wants me to explode. He wants to destroy me, to ruin me, in front of her.
It’s territorial.
She’s mine. Leave her alone or you’ll have me to deal with.
“Icanhear you, you know,” she says, so haughty and stuck-up. So prim and Arabella. I clamp my lips together, because while Rory expertly destroys me like a cat with his favorite toy, all I want to do is rock the castle with my moans and scream the place down.
“That’s it,” Rory breathes, his voice an octave deeper than when he’d last spoken. It gives him a dangerous edge. I swallow my desire down, I choke back the groans I wish I could unleash — that Rory, for whatever reason,wantsme to unleash.
But I do. I so desperately want to shatter. My mom’s appearance has ruined everything—
I shove the memories away. I squash it all down, until the world shrinks to the tempo of Rory’s clever fingers and my room grows unbearably hot. I’m unsteady on my feet now, shaking so badly that Rory needs to haul me against him. The kisses at my nape are wetter and crueler, dragging forbidden whimpers from me with the pierce of his teeth. He rolls my nipple sharply between his forefingers and suddenly I’m crying out loud, my body jolting in his too-tight arms, as waves of pleasure cascade over me.
And then I’m moaning, and I can’t help it. I can’t help the ungodly sounds that spill from my lips, the broken, almost grieving noise, from the quiet catharsis Rory’s created within me. He holds me steady and kisses my temple soundly, as I quake beneath his arms, my body racked with tremors.
“Well!” says Arabella, outrage now tinging her voice, and shame should rocket through me. It should violate the happy soothing bliss in my head, the way it would a normal person. That’s how normal people would react.
But I’m not normal. I’m sure of it now. I’ve established this only a few days ago when I decided that sucking Rory off in front of the chiefs, in the back of a cab, was a great idea.
Normal people don’t do that.
Normal people don’t get their kicks from getting their rocks off in front of others.
“I’m going to… clean up,” I mumble, and Rory gives me one last squeeze. One last kiss to make sure everything’s all right.
It’s all I ever asked for. Oblivion. Catharsis. Rory’s given me everything I’ve ever wanted, no matter how unconventional.
