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“When it’s safe to leave, I will. While I’m here”—she raises a delicate shoulder, covered with black velvet, then lets it drop—“I’d rather fuck you than fight with you.”
My jaw flexes as she turns around, facing the mirror. Her eyes meet mine in the reflection as she leans forward and rests her hands on either side of the sink. Her gaze holds mine as one hand gathers the hem of her dress and tugs, revealing inch after inch of smooth, creamy skin. My cock comes to life with a jerk, lust overtaking irritation.
I’m pissed at Lyla. Furious with myself. And so hard, it’s physically painful.
The black strip of lace between her legs comes into view. My hand strokes my cock without permission, attempting to alleviate some of the pressure. “Tell me no, Lyla.”
She bites her bottom lip in response.
“Last chance, Lyla.” I growl the words. I’ve never been this worked up about sex. The hunger and the rage are consuming. Thrilling. I crave Lyla like an addictive high. An indescribable rush.
She stays silent. I slap the right side of her ass, and it’s not a light swat. It leaves a pink mark against her creamy skin. Still, she says nothing.
Her back arches when she feels the tip probe her wet pussy. “Oh myGod.”
“He’s not the one inside this tight pussy, Lyla. Who’s fucking you right now?”
“You. Fuck—you. I can’t. Nick, Ican’t.”
I smile. If this is all I get with her, these memories of the whimpers and the wet clasp of her cunt wrapped around me, it will have to be enough.
CHAPTERTWENTY-SEVEN
LYLA
Inever thought I’d be drawn to the darkness like a moth seeks a flame. Never thought arousal would smell like smoke and look like sin. But I can feel it tightening and tugging low in my belly, my body reacting to the feel of those dark green eyes on me.
A stream of smoke leaves his lips as he rolls the orange-tipped stick between his fingers, lazy and unbothered.
My tongue prods the inside of my cheek. We both know why I’m here. Both know it’s a bad idea. Both know it will happen anyway.
I’m just as enthralled by Nick as I was when he fucked me in the bathroom at the party last night. Everyone stared at me for the rest of the night after I returned with mussed hair and puffy lips, some combination of judgment and awe on their faces. I’ve simply accepted he’s a web I can’t crawl out of until there are thousands of miles between us.
Nick stabs out the cigarette and cracks the window, letting a blast of cold air wash away the lingering smoke.
I shiver, and he opens the window wider, swirling the clear liquid before swallowing a large sip. Those green eyes remain on me the whole time, seeing too much and too little.
My nipples pucker against the wind as cold creeps across my skin. I’m icy and warm at once, like jumping into a hot tub after lying in a snowbank. I only know because I went skiing with Kennedy at her family’s chalet once, over winter break, just before that fateful night I met the guy currently studying me like a science experiment. Like he’s not sure what to do about me standing here.
I mourned the loss of the happy, carefree guy I met freshman year twice.
Once, when he left.
And again when I found out his real identity a few weeks ago.
But now, I wonder if the lightness was what I was attracted to. I saw glimpses of his moodiness then—when he’d finger the silver lighter, when his family would come up—and it fit well with my melancholy. Made me feel seen and less alone.
Any comfort from that is fleeting and bittersweet now. We might be the same two people in some ways, but everything else has changed.
I should go back to my room and face the inevitable hours of tossing and turning.
But I know I won’t.
When he’s inside of me, it’s the only time I can pretend. The only time I admit to myself I’m drawn to the darkness too.
“You were gone for a while.”
Predictably, I’m the one who speaks first. Nick’s only response is a callous raise of one eyebrow and shutting the window. The air that lingers between us is cold, in more ways than one. He disappeared after dinner and only returned a few minutes ago. The creak of the top stair has become a Pavlovian cue for me.
