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I wonder if she’d flush if I licked her nipples, then blew on them.
Or if I bit them harshly.
A growl vibrates in my chest at the thought.
“Those thick lips wrapped around my cock would look so hot.”
I turn a steely look towards Devlin. He’s the one who made the comment about a handjob.
He flinches, not understanding why I’m not applauding him for piling on. He’s a follower like the rest of them, someone I only tolerate because it’d be more work to get rid of him.
Like the others, he knows his place and awaits my orders.
“I want her gone. Tell everyone.”
???
Phoenix and I walk into our English Lit class with five minutes to spare.
She’s sitting in a two seater in the second row. Her head is down and she’s focused on organizing her desk. Book to the left, opened to the correct page. Notebook to the right. Pens at the top.
Excellent.
I usually sit in the back row, all the way to the side. But the urge to mess with her, to ruin her is a physical one.
It crawls under my skin and begs to be let out.
I’m like an addict needing a quick fix, but my drug of choice is seeing the pulse jump in her throat when she’s afraid.
Phoenix sees my unflinching stare. “What are you going to do?”
“Play with my toy.” I say with an ugly smile.
I walk up to her and stop next to her seat.
She doesn’t notice me, her back turned as she digs through her backpack. Her hair is swept up in a ponytail that exposes the back of her neck to me.
You don’t turn your back when the enemy is nearby. Unlucky for her, she doesn’t seem to realize I’m the worst kind of villain there is.
Her delicate neck is laid bare before me. She’s so fragile.
So vulnerable.
I could snap it without much effort if I wanted to.
I look down at the desk and something about the neatness sets me off. The order in her life is in direct contrast to the chaos in mine, and I want to defile it.
With a flick of my wrist, I send the contents of her desk flying to the ground. A gasp leaves her lips as she turns to look at me, setting the bottle in her hand down.
“Seats taken.”
“By who?”
“By me.” I counter. “Get up.”
She looks at me for a beat, as if deciding whether to obey or not. Calculating whether this is a battle she can win in a war she’s destined to lose.
Her hesitation is an act of rebellion in itself.
