Punk 57
Page 52
She squeezes her eyes shut, moaning.
“You like it?” I taunt.
“Yeah.”
“Tell me.”
“I like it!” she cries out.
Her nipple stands up like a point, and I can’t take my eyes off her as I fuck her and kiss her lips.
“Come on, Rocks. Buy my silence,” I growl as she rolls her ass against me, dry-fucking my dick as I finger her. “Spread those legs and come on my fingers, and I won’t tell everyone you’re the little shit writing on the walls.”
She rests her head on my shoulder and reaches back with one hand, holding the back of my neck as she fucks my hand. Something builds low in my stomach, and the friction of her rubbing against my cock sends need rolling through me as we go harder and harder. Her tits are bouncing rough and fast, and I watch them, imagining my dick inside of her, fucking her.
“Don’t tell anyone. Please?” she begs, thrusting against me.
The blood rushes to my cock, and I feel cum drip out of my tip. Fuck, I need to be inside of her.
“Just a little more, baby,” I urge. “How good are you willing to give it to me to keep me quiet? Huh?”
“Ah,” she whimpers. “Yeah, whatever you want.”
“Whatever I want?”
She nods frantically, crying out. “Yes!” She moves faster and faster, chasing her orgasm, and then finally throws her head back and stills, moaning and shivering as she comes. “Oh, God!”
I push my fingers deep inside her, rubbing her spot and feeling her body’s little convulsions as the orgasm works through her.
She breathes hard and fast, her body tense, and my cock is hard and ready to go, aching in my jeans. I wouldn’t want to screw her for the first time in a library, but I didn’t expect to get myself this worked up, either.
Her orgasm ebbs away, and she calms, her chest rising and falling slower and slower. I look down at her body and her beautiful face, a wave of shit I don’t know what to do with washing over me.
Guilt, because she still doesn’t know who I am, and I’ve just dug myself in deeper.
Longing, because I miss her. I miss talking to her as me.
Lust greater than I’ve ever known, because when we’re like this, it’s the only time she softens and changes and gives me an inch, and it’s a need that’s in my head just as much as my body. It keeps me on my toes.
And something else growing that I don’t want to be there. Something that might make it very hard to leave her.
And impossible to forget her.
I watch her face, her body still and her eyes downcast, and a bad feeling creeps through me. She’s not looking at me.
After a few moments, she sits up and crawls off me, standing up and grabbing her clothes. I hesitate only a moment before I sit up, as well, watching her warily. She dresses and pushes her hair behind her ear, looking anywhere but at me.
The moment is gone.
But I stare at her anyway, not letting her off the hook.
She picks up her backpack and finally looks at me. “You started it,” she snips, her guard back up, “so if you’re expecting a blow job, then—”
“Then I know where to get one,” I reply, cutting her off. “You’re not my first rodeo.”
A chill settles under my skin, and now I’m pissed. Her jaw flexes, and she arches an eyebrow.
How quickly she can go from hot to cold.
She puts on her backpack and twists around, heading down the stairs. I stand up and walk over to the railing, watching her leave the library.
Fine. She wants her jock prom date in order to live some lie for everyone else’s approval? I can understand that.
But it doesn’t mean she’s going to own every round we play.
Trey’s game is on Saturday, so I have a couple days to kill until then. If she wants to play, I can play.
I haven’t spoken to Masen in almost two days. Not since Wednesday night in the library, and now it’s Friday afternoon, and he wasn’t in our first class today again. How does he just come and go like it’s no big deal? Has he even turned in any work? I’ve never seen him with books, and I’m tempted to go to the Cove and check on him. Is he even still there?
I don’t know why I care. He’s constantly getting in my face, I know next to nothing about him, and he’s dangerous for me. I’m not looking to break the mold when the year’s almost over. I’ve come this far, and I don’t want any drama. He should stay away.
But I find myself looking for him. In class. In the cafeteria. In the parking lot. Even when I go home, this small hope lights up that he’ll ambush me in my room just like that first day last week.
I want to be alone with him again. Those few stolen moments—the car, the lab, the library—they’re like my letters from Misha. Something to look forward to.
I didn’t leave any graffiti last night after swim lessons, partly because I almost got caught the night before with him and it was a good idea to back off for a few days, but also because I suddenly didn’t want to.
Masen was the release now.
And I hated that.
When Misha disappeared, and I didn’t know if he was getting my words, I started leaving them at school for people to read. It’s stupid and childish, but one day a couple of months ago, when things got to be too much, I was afraid I’d start screaming. So that night, before locking up the pool, I made a snap-second decision and took out my Sharpie. I wrote on a locker—a special message for just that person.
“You like it?” I taunt.
“Yeah.”
“Tell me.”
“I like it!” she cries out.
Her nipple stands up like a point, and I can’t take my eyes off her as I fuck her and kiss her lips.
“Come on, Rocks. Buy my silence,” I growl as she rolls her ass against me, dry-fucking my dick as I finger her. “Spread those legs and come on my fingers, and I won’t tell everyone you’re the little shit writing on the walls.”
She rests her head on my shoulder and reaches back with one hand, holding the back of my neck as she fucks my hand. Something builds low in my stomach, and the friction of her rubbing against my cock sends need rolling through me as we go harder and harder. Her tits are bouncing rough and fast, and I watch them, imagining my dick inside of her, fucking her.
“Don’t tell anyone. Please?” she begs, thrusting against me.
The blood rushes to my cock, and I feel cum drip out of my tip. Fuck, I need to be inside of her.
“Just a little more, baby,” I urge. “How good are you willing to give it to me to keep me quiet? Huh?”
“Ah,” she whimpers. “Yeah, whatever you want.”
“Whatever I want?”
She nods frantically, crying out. “Yes!” She moves faster and faster, chasing her orgasm, and then finally throws her head back and stills, moaning and shivering as she comes. “Oh, God!”
I push my fingers deep inside her, rubbing her spot and feeling her body’s little convulsions as the orgasm works through her.
She breathes hard and fast, her body tense, and my cock is hard and ready to go, aching in my jeans. I wouldn’t want to screw her for the first time in a library, but I didn’t expect to get myself this worked up, either.
Her orgasm ebbs away, and she calms, her chest rising and falling slower and slower. I look down at her body and her beautiful face, a wave of shit I don’t know what to do with washing over me.
Guilt, because she still doesn’t know who I am, and I’ve just dug myself in deeper.
Longing, because I miss her. I miss talking to her as me.
Lust greater than I’ve ever known, because when we’re like this, it’s the only time she softens and changes and gives me an inch, and it’s a need that’s in my head just as much as my body. It keeps me on my toes.
And something else growing that I don’t want to be there. Something that might make it very hard to leave her.
And impossible to forget her.
I watch her face, her body still and her eyes downcast, and a bad feeling creeps through me. She’s not looking at me.
After a few moments, she sits up and crawls off me, standing up and grabbing her clothes. I hesitate only a moment before I sit up, as well, watching her warily. She dresses and pushes her hair behind her ear, looking anywhere but at me.
The moment is gone.
But I stare at her anyway, not letting her off the hook.
She picks up her backpack and finally looks at me. “You started it,” she snips, her guard back up, “so if you’re expecting a blow job, then—”
“Then I know where to get one,” I reply, cutting her off. “You’re not my first rodeo.”
A chill settles under my skin, and now I’m pissed. Her jaw flexes, and she arches an eyebrow.
How quickly she can go from hot to cold.
She puts on her backpack and twists around, heading down the stairs. I stand up and walk over to the railing, watching her leave the library.
Fine. She wants her jock prom date in order to live some lie for everyone else’s approval? I can understand that.
But it doesn’t mean she’s going to own every round we play.
Trey’s game is on Saturday, so I have a couple days to kill until then. If she wants to play, I can play.
I haven’t spoken to Masen in almost two days. Not since Wednesday night in the library, and now it’s Friday afternoon, and he wasn’t in our first class today again. How does he just come and go like it’s no big deal? Has he even turned in any work? I’ve never seen him with books, and I’m tempted to go to the Cove and check on him. Is he even still there?
I don’t know why I care. He’s constantly getting in my face, I know next to nothing about him, and he’s dangerous for me. I’m not looking to break the mold when the year’s almost over. I’ve come this far, and I don’t want any drama. He should stay away.
But I find myself looking for him. In class. In the cafeteria. In the parking lot. Even when I go home, this small hope lights up that he’ll ambush me in my room just like that first day last week.
I want to be alone with him again. Those few stolen moments—the car, the lab, the library—they’re like my letters from Misha. Something to look forward to.
I didn’t leave any graffiti last night after swim lessons, partly because I almost got caught the night before with him and it was a good idea to back off for a few days, but also because I suddenly didn’t want to.
Masen was the release now.
And I hated that.
When Misha disappeared, and I didn’t know if he was getting my words, I started leaving them at school for people to read. It’s stupid and childish, but one day a couple of months ago, when things got to be too much, I was afraid I’d start screaming. So that night, before locking up the pool, I made a snap-second decision and took out my Sharpie. I wrote on a locker—a special message for just that person.
