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“What are you doing?”
“Reminding you of your place.”
Her chin rises, and her sapphire eyes flash. “I know my place,” she says coolly.
“Do you?” I ask. “Because I think you’ve forgotten.”
“I’m the whore,” she says, not flinching. “You’re the king.”
“You really think that’s what I want to hear?”
She lets me back her into the shower area, but she never backs down, not even an inch. Her chin stays high, her eyes fierce. “What do you want?”
“I want you naked.”
She sucks in a breath, then sinks slowly onto one of the benches. “Why?” she asks, but she’s already kicking off her tennis shoes.
I don’t tell her why. I don’t tell her that these three benches and the section of showers beside them can be seen by the boy in the storage closet. It’s not my thing, but just about every guy at Willow Heights got curious enough to go check it out at one point or another.
But this isn’t about Rylan. Not entirely. It’s about me, about needing to get her out of my system and be done with her for good, the way I’m done with Duke. That part is for me.
“You don’t ask questions anymore,” I say. “You obey.”
“Fine,” she says, peeling off her hoodie and the t-shirt under it in one go. I watch her lean torso stretch as she pulls her shirt over her head. Her tummy is toned and lightly tanned, with just a slight softness that wasn’t there when she was a Dolce girl who was too scared to eat French fries and ice cream. A little blue gemstone glitters in her belly button piercing. Holding my gaze, she reaches behind her and undoes her black lace bra.
Slowly, she slides it down her arms and drops it to the tile floor at her feet.
For a second, I lose focus. All I can see is her tits, fuller than that day in the parking lot, just begging to be cupped in my palms. I can almost taste her rose-petal pink nipples, feel them tightening into buds against my tongue.
“You okay?” she asks, smirking at me and hooking her thumbs into the band of her sweatpants. “Should I stop?”
“No,” I say, my gaze snapping back to hers.
She lifts up to pull her sweats down, then bends to tug them off her feet. Straightening, she leans back on her hands, her hair cascading over one shoulder, hiding her breast in a curtain of blond silk. She watches me take her in with a challenge in her pretty eyes. When my gaze rakes down her thighs, she parts them, giving me a peek at the strip of black lace between. This is the girl I remember, the girl from the roof during Bye Week, the one who might have spent the same week with me last year. A girl who would fight to the death for a victory, not the defeated, tragic figure she’s been at school.
Knowing that girl is still in there excites me more than it should.
“Those too,” I say, my voice rough.
“Sure you can handle it?” she asks, a little grin tugging at her pretty lips.
“I can handle you, butterfly,” I say, smirking back at her.
“Okay,” she says, casting a doubtful look my way. She stands, hooks her fingers into the lace, and peels them down in one motion, bending in half to bring them to her ankles. I’ve never hated anyone as much as I hate that little bitch Rylan for getting that view from behind. Gloria straightens, throwing her hair back like a stripper, and steps one dainty foot out at a time. I stare at her bare toes with their siren-red nails for a second while I gather the strength to look at the rest of her.
This isn’t the time to lose control and act like an animal.
I force my eyes to move up her, not to linger on the soft skin of her thighs, the swell of her bare pussy, her tan lines, her bellybutton ring, the hypnotic femininity of her soft breasts. I rake my gaze up her in one pass, then stare directly into her eyes.
“On your knees.”
My command is harsh and simple, and her eyes widen at the order.
For a second, I think she’ll balk, maybe even refuse me. Then she raises her chin and slowly lowers herself onto her knees, wincing when she leans forward and gingerly sets her palms on the tile.
“Good girl,” I say. “Now crawl.”
She pauses a long moment, then starts forward. I stare at the wall behind her, at the place where a shampoo dispenser was taken out, where three screws and one hole remain. I hope that little worm enjoys the view, because it’s the last fucking time he’s going to see Gloria Walton.
