Greyson kneels in front of me. I feel strange, like I don’t fit inside my skin anymore. I’ve been stretched and snapped back into place, and everything is just… off. He runs his hands down my leg and lifts my left one. I don’t realize until it’s too late.
He touches the scar running down my calf and stares at it.
Then, without warning, he digs his thumbs into my skin. I hiss, the shock worse than the pain, and jerk my leg out of his grasp. He lets me inch around him and go to the door. He knows before I do that I’m not going outside. Not when I’m naked, with cum dripping down the inside of my thighs. The party downstairs is still raging.
I turn back around and find my shirt. He sits on the edge of his bed and watches me with dark eyes. He’s dangerous. I need to repeat that. Danger, danger . A warning siren flashes red in my mind, twisting behind my vision.
There’s no way I’m calling it quits tonight. He offered me a way to relax—and I’m not sure that sex was on the agenda. Not at first.
I go to my leggings next, ignoring that I don’t have panties. They’re torn and forgotten on his floor, so fuck it. I’ll go without. I shimmy in front of him, barely keeping my balance to yank them on. I’m better than that—my balance is usually solid.
He’s shaken me more than I thought.
I picture the woman in the photo album. It must be special to him—it was front and center, practically displayed. The only thing on that bookcase that seemed to hold any value. And the photos themselves. Worn around the edges, like they’ve been touched countless times.
Maybe he hurts like I do. Maybe he dreams about the parent he doesn’t have, but he won’t admit it. He shouldn’t have a soft side. He shouldn’t be appealing.
He follows me into the hallway. I twist the knob to go into the bathroom, and he blocks me.
I raise my eyebrow. “What are you doing?”
“If you’re going downstairs, you’re fine as you are.”
I glare at him. “Excuse me?”
“You’re excused.” He leans against the bathroom door. “If you’re going downstairs, I want everyone to know that you were just thoroughly fucked. I want them to smell it on your skin and see it in the flush in your cheeks. I want them to know my cum is seeping out of your cunt.”
He can’t be serious.
“It’s healthier to pee after sex. It prevents UTIs.”
He shrugs. “Fine, then you’re not going downstairs.”
His indifference is infuriating. Seems like he doesn’t care one way or another, so I shake my head and go for the stairs. I’ve never been afraid of people looking at me. I survived the aftermath of Greyson sharing the video of my drunk blow job, I can survive a few people knowing I had sex.
When we get downstairs, he becomes my shadow. He follows me into the living room, where the party has evolved into couples paired off on the couches and chairs. Willow and Knox sit in a loveseat opposite the large, L-shaped couch. Steele found himself a girl, and so did Erik. Miles sits beside Amanda, close but not quite touching. Jacob and another dance team girl, Madison, are making out in the corner—but they’re the only ones not paying attention to the conversation.
“They just need a better goalie,” Miles argues. “The rest is fine.”
“Well, their forwards were shit,” Steele says. “Not that I’m mad about that.”
“I’m just saying, if they want to get ahead, they’ve got to up the ante. Stop more shots.”
“They should just stop…” Steele pauses, attention bouncing from me to Greyson. “Hey, Violet.”
My face flames, and I step over Erik’s legs to get to the empty spot in the center of the couch. Greyson disappears into the kitchen, and I sink into the cushions. Realistically, I wish I had thought better of my plan. I should’ve just gone to sleep to pretend that this never happened.
But… nope.
Steele leans over the girl beside him. “You okay?”
I stare at him. “Don’t I look okay?”
“You look satisfied,” the girl says. She twists to glance over her shoulder back the way Greyson had gone. “He doesn’t strike me as the giving type.”
“Just because he didn’t make you orgasm doesn’t mean he’s incapable.” Erik snorts. “Unless you had to finish the job yourself, Violet?”
I shake my head slowly. Of course she’s slept with Greyson before. At this rate, I’m not surprised. Paris is probably on that list, too. And half of the other hockey-player-chasing girls I know.
“I just blew him,” the girl mumbles. She folds her arms over her chest.
Steele laughs. “Low standards, sweetheart. Stick with me.”
I quirk my lips. “You don’t seem like the giving type either.”
A hand lands on my shoulder, and I jump. A second later, Greyson is leaning over the couch and forcing my head around to look at him. He stares into my eyes, letting me and only me see his anger.
I raise my eyebrows. If he didn’t want me to insinuate that I gave Steele a blow job—which I did because Greyson made me—then he shouldn’t have put the dick in my mouth.
I think I communicate that just fine, because Greyson’s lips twitch. And then he vaults over the back of the couch, landing beside me. He grabs my hips and hauls me onto his lap. I don’t miss that he’s growing hard under my ass, and I try to get off him.
He bands his arm around my waist, keeping me still.
Well.
I finally take a breath and relax against him, and he relaxes, too. Like he’s content now that he knows I’m not going anywhere.
But I can’t look my best friend in the eye. She’d know something is up. And Greyson was right—I think they can literally smell the sex on me.
“So, um…” I swallow. “Maybe I should head back to the apartment. Or get a hotel.”
“Nonsense,” Greyson answers. “You can’t go back tonight. Not until we can check it out.”
I frown. “We?”
He pats my thigh. “If you want to sleep, I have a bed.”
“You’re going soft on me.”
He leans forward, teeth against my neck. “Never.” His breath fans across my skin, raising goosebumps.
Willow shakes her head and glares at Knox. “You told her you’d take care of it—not that she needs to stay here. We’re going home.”
She stands and holds her hand out to me, wobbling slightly.
I hesitate.
I love my best friend. I do. I love that she always wants to keep me safe, and that she tries to do what’s best for us. I love that she’s fierce and loyal and smart. But I’m afraid that the man in the mask might return, knowing we’ll be there—or, worse, we’ll go back and he’ll have ransacked the place again.
Everything was locked when I left, but I don’t know if that’s enough to stop him. If he’s determined enough, he could break down our door, or jimmy open another window.
“You want to put your best friend in danger?” Greyson whispers in my ear.
I shake my head sharply and ignore him.
“Violet,” Willow says. “Come with me. Don’t worry, caveman, we won’t leave. Yet.”
His grip on me eases slightly. I take her hand and let her pull me out of his lap, and she drags me into the kitchen.
Immediately, she seems more sober.
Maybe there’s a difference between her being happy-go-lucky buzzed and drunk, and she was just riding that line. But now it’s clear that she hasn’t been overdoing it, because her expression is clear. And accusatory.
She narrows her eyes. “You went upstairs with him. Alone.”
I lift one shoulder and glance away. “I…”
“Are you okay?” She steps closer. “No offense, but you look like he twisted you like a pretzel… and that you enjoyed it. You have bite marks…”
I slap my palm over my neck. I knew I should’ve just stayed upstairs. Freaking hell.
“Everything is fine,” I assure her. I’m not quite sure that’s true, though, but I won’t be bursting her bubble. Or, even worse, worrying her. “Yes, we had a little thing. It was consensual. And hot. So, we’re good.”
“And you want to stay here?”
I bite my lower lip, running my tongue over it. I don’t want to stay, but as Greyson said: I don’t want to put her in danger.
I say as much, and she nods.
Concern creases her eyes. “That guy… he didn’t do anything, right?”
“He saw me and ran.” I grab a cup and pour myself a glass of water, chugging it down.
I refill it in the sink and hand it to her, then tip my head. We go through the kitchen and down a short hall to a bathroom.
She locks it behind us, and I take the much-needed opportunity to pee. She fidgets with her fingernails. “I just don’t get what someone wants with you, in particular.”
“I was sure it was Greyson.” I pull up my leggings and wash my hands, then follow her out.
“But you called right after it happened?” She glances through the doorway to the living room, pausing again in the kitchen. It seems safe enough to talk in here without them overhearing. “He was here. The whole hockey team was, actually.”
I grimace. “Yeah.”
“So, ruling him and the team out… was it someone else we know?” She rubs her forehead. “You know what? Maybe this is a conversation we’d have easier when I’m not tipsy.”
“Tomorrow? Brunch.” We’re obsessed with brunch. I’m not sure why. It’s always been a Sunday treat.
“Deal.”
She finishes the water and sets the cup in the sink. When we reenter the living room, the lights are dimmer. Someone has put a movie on, and everyone has adjusted to watch it. Greyson’s gaze on me is a weighty thing, and I sense him watching me as I pick my way toward him.
I try to sit beside him, but he redirects me again. I land on his lap, and he wastes no time rearranging my limbs to suit him. He shifts me so I’m cradled sideways, my legs up on the couch and extended toward Steele and his girl. Greyson wraps a blanket around both of us, but I know it’s not a comfort thing. It’s a possessive thing.
I don’t know how I know, until his hand goes into my leggings.
“Thought I told you to keep me between your legs,” he says in my ear.
I shake my head. “You can’t just stop bodily functions.”
He grunts, and his fingers move. I let out a breath when I realize what his intention is. My clit is sore from the earlier abuse, but he’s gentler now. My pussy pulses with need, reawakening, and I put my hand on his wrist.
He tsks. “Watch the movie, Vi.”
Vi. He called me that in his text to himself from my phone, too. No one calls me that, not even Willow. As a kid, I was very against nicknames. I hated that my name could be shortened. Unlike Willow, whose only real option is Will, there are too many ways to chop mine up.
Violet can turn into so many terrible things to creative kids. Vile was common for the bullies. Lettie by my well-meaning mother, although she dropped that by the time I turned twelve. When I met Willow, I was sick of people asking what I’d rather go by, that I ranted to her about ending all nicknames. Outlawing them.
But, damn it, I’ve got to admit that I like the sound of it coming out of his mouth.
I shift, rotating in his direction. I let my head rest against his shoulder and make myself a promise.
Tomorrow, we will go back to hating each other. Tomorrow, all the bad things can sweep back into my brain. Tomorrow, tomorrow, tomorrow.
Right now, I close my eyes and enjoy the slow strokes of his finger on my clit and the way his cheek feels against the top of my head. And the sounds of the movie and the people around us. I should be wary, or afraid, or just altogether unwilling to orgasm in front of people.
But when it sneaks up on me, I turn my face into Greyson’s neck and bite. Hard.
His fingers push into me, and I clench around him. I try not to make a single noise with my teeth locked on his skin. My tongue flicks out, automatically soothing the area. His cock stiffens, pressing against my hip.
Why do girls always go for the bad guy?
I don’t think I can change him. I don’t think I want to—in fact, I’d be happy if I never had anything to do with him ever again. If we walked away right now, I’d accept it.
No, Violet. That’s a fucking lie.
Girls like me need guys like him to spar with, to fight. To hurl the miseries and the anger at someone who can handle it.
He withdraws his fingers and puts them to my lips. I clench my teeth and ignore it. There’s no fucking way I’m sucking on his fingers that were just in me. Nope.
His breathy laugh is the only warning I get before he pinches my jaw with his free hand. He grips my cheeks so hard, my mouth opens to avoid the pain. And then his fingers slip into my mouth, pressing down on my tongue, and he waits.
Mortification floods through me at the taste, and the position, and the power of him. I loathe it, but he’s more stubborn than me. He rubs his fingers back and forth across my tongue until I close my lips around his two fingers and tentatively suck at them. He releases my jaw, and that hand slides down my back.
He lets my tongue explore his fingers, the edge of his nails. The texture of his knuckles. When I’ve done what he wants, he pulls them from my mouth. I lick my lips and lift my head to glare at him, but he’s uninterested in my reaction.
It isn’t the aftermath that he cares about—it’s the act. And since he got what he wanted, he’s ready to focus on the movie.
I let out a sigh and put my head back down on his shoulder.
I’m so fucking tired. I don’t give a shit that my eyes close. That anyone could’ve seen what just happened. Instead, I fall asleep.
