HIS QUESTION HANGS in the air and all I can think is, please don’t answer.
Please don’t answer.
I remain quiet, but it doesn’t matter. He keeps speaking, letting go of my wrists and bracing both of his hands on the shelf behind me, caging me in completely. I’m surrounded by him and God help me, I like it.
Despite everything he’s said and done and how he taunts and tortures me, I crave more of him. More talking, more touching, all of it. Just knowing he’s watching does something to me. Makes me feel alive.
Makes me feel wanted.
“I’d have you sitting just so, your little plaid skirt flared out so I could feel the backs of your bare legs, the soft cotton of your panties resting against my thigh. And guess what?” He tips his head, his mouth at my temple when he murmurs, “They’d be damp. Fucking soaked for me.”
My panties are soaked right now just at his words.
“When no one was looking, I’d slip my hand beneath your skirt. Trace the leg of your panties, right at that spot where your pelvis meets your thigh. Then, I’d run my finger up and down, right along the edge, and I’d slip my finger beneath the fabric and finger-fuck you right there in front of everybody. Your skin would start to flush, get all rosy, like it does right before you come, and I’d give you an orgasm. You wouldn’t be able to stop it, wouldn’t be able to control yourself because I know what you like, Carolina. And I know just how to give it to you.”
His voice is a hot rasp against my skin, his words filling my head with thoughts. Too many chaotic, naughty thoughts.
“Of course, who am I kidding? Everyone would be looking at us and everyone would know I’m knuckle-deep inside Carolina Lancaster’s tight little pussy, making her come right there in the middle of the dining hall. Mercedes would probably be pissed as hell, but it would be a fun little show to put on, don’t you think?” He shifts, backing away from me, and I nearly collapse to the floor, not realizing that the only thing holding me up was his body pinning me to the shelf.
“You’re disgusting.” There’s no anger in my voice and I’m sure he knows I don’t mean it.
Because I don’t. What he just described rattled me to my very core. My entire body is strung tight and the throb that started between my thighs the moment he pulled me into the closet has only become stronger.
It’s all I can focus on.
“You fucking love it.” He is relishing every moment of this and I want to hit him.
I also want him to slip his fingers inside my panties and do to me exactly what he just described.
A whimper leaves me and I press my lips together, trying to stifle it, but there’s no use.
He heard me.
“I can smell you, you know.” He’s back, his body next to mine, his mouth brushing my forehead as he speaks. “You’re hot for it, aren’t you?”
I say nothing, trying to control the trembling that wants to take over my body.
His hand brushes the hem of my skirt and I hold my breath, my chest growing tight when he slips his fingers beneath my skirt. They brush my thigh, sliding up, and a ragged sigh escapes me when he does exactly as he described, tracing the edge of my panties, right at the spot where my thigh meets my pelvis. “It probably wouldn’t take much, would it?”
Much what, is what I want to ask, but I keep my mouth shut. I don’t trust myself to say anything right now.
“You’d probably go off like a firecracker.” His fingers slip beneath the thin fabric of my panties, streaking across my pussy, and I spread my legs slightly, my feet sliding across the concrete.
I can see his grin in the dim light of the closet, and I know he loves that I obey him without words. That I want him like I can’t help myself. I lean my head back, resting it against the shelf, my eyes falling closed when he sinks his fingers into my pussy and begins to stroke.
I’m so wet, the sound of his busy fingers fills the confined space, but I don’t care. All I can focus on is the way he touches me, his breaths hot and heavy against my forehead, the sloppy sounds of my juices as he slides his fingers inside my body, testing me. Stretching me.
“You’re so fucking tight,” he mutters, and I gasp, my inner walls convulsing around his fingers, the orgasm slamming into me out of nowhere. I shudder and shake, his body holding me up, his fingers pumping inside me, his thumb brushing against my clit.
The moment stretches on for what feels like forever, my mind going blank, all the air escaping me until I can’t breathe. I never touch him. It feels as if he’s holding me up with just his fingers buried inside my body, and when the orgasm is finally over and I can focus again, I realize his fingers are still in me, his mouth at my temple, his soft chuckle rippling across my skin.
“That was too easy.” He pulls his fingers from my body, my skirt falling, covering me completely and then those same fingers are at my mouth, trying to pry my lips apart. “Open up.”
I do as he says and he fills my mouth with his fingers, the salty, musky taste of me hitting my tongue.
“Suck,” he demands, and I do as he says, lapping at his fingers, sucking every bit of myself off of them until he finally makes a growling sound of satisfaction, pulling his fingers from my mouth.
I wait for the shame to wash over me, but it doesn’t come. My skin feels electrified. My mind is spinning and my toes are tingling and I wonder if this is normal.
“Did I hurt you?” he asks, his voice low.
I shake my head, surprised at his concern. “Not really.”
“Not really?”
“I—liked it.” I miss the pain from dancing. The rigorous training my body used to go through is gone and there’s an empty spot inside me now that longs for it. Pushing myself beyond my limits. I want to be exhausted. I want my muscles to be weak and shaky and I want my mind to be blank.
I’ve discovered the closest thing to that feeling is engaging in sexual acts with West.
THE MOMENT the final bell rings, I escape my class and head for my suite, eager to be alone in my room so I can explore a few things. Bask in my memories of what happened just before lunch ended. When West fucked me with his fingers and made me come in a matter of seconds.
I’m still waiting for the embarrassment and shame to hit me, but it hasn’t come yet. So when I run into him hanging around the entrance to my building, I come to a complete stop, staring at him, pleasure and shock mingling in my blood.
That I’m happy to see him doesn’t really surprise me. It’s more the fact that he’s here. Seeking me out.
“What do you want?” I ask, my voice calm.
He shoves his hands in his pockets, watching me. “Just checking on you.”
“Are you concerned for my welfare? I appreciate it, but I’m fine. Really.” I go to the double doors and pry open one of them, wincing at how heavy it is.
He’s there in an instant, directly behind me, opening the door and taking the brunt of the weight. “What are you doing?”
“Going to my room.” He follows me into the hall, the door slamming behind us, shrouding us in echoey silence. We’re the only two people in this entire building. “Do you want to join me? Are you hoping I’ll say yes after Mercedes turned you down?”
I’m goading him on purpose and it works. He’s grimacing, his gaze filled with disgust.
“I don’t like her like that and you know it.”
I come to a stop and so does he, the two of us facing each other. “I do? I don’t know. You had her on your lap at lunch.”
“And I had my fingers inside you right after. She’s not the one I want.”
The unspoken words say so much and I tell my hopeful heart to get over it. Whatever West and I are about to embark on is nothing close to normal. I can admit this—we want each other. I’m curious about him, but I’m also not comfortable touching another human like that.
Like what he wants.
And I have no clue how to do it either.
“Are you embarrassed?” he asks when I remain quiet. “About what happened?”
“No,” I admit, deciding to give in a little. “I liked it.”
His expression remains serious. “You’re all I can think about.”
I blink at him.
“I had a test in sixth period and I couldn’t concentrate for shit. I could still smell you on my fingers and I couldn’t stop thinking about the sounds you made. How your cunt tightened around my fingers right as you came.” He shakes his head, rubbing his jaw with his hand. “You’re bad for me, Carolina.”
I don’t even take offense. “You’re bad for me too.”
“Show me your room.”
I shake my head. “Wait for me in the dance studio.”
He frowns. “What do you mean?”
“You know where it’s at. Wait for me.” I start walking, heading toward my suite, not looking back when I say, “The door’s unlocked.”
I can feel his gaze on me as I practically run into my room, and the moment I’m inside, I turn the lock, so he can’t barge in.
Not that he would. I think he might enjoy the game as much as I do. The anticipation.
I go to the full-length mirror and stare at myself, taking in my reddened cheeks, my wild eyes. I shed all my clothes until I’m standing there completely naked, my nipples hard and red, that rosy flush he spoke of earlier coating my skin.
He does this to me, I think, as I touch my breast, pinching my nipple, making me wince.
He makes me feel this way, I realize as I slip my fingers between my legs and stroke myself once, pulling them out and staring at them. They glisten, my scent clinging to my skin, and I rub one nipple, then the other, wondering if he’ll notice.
Knowing without a doubt he will.
Turning away from the mirror, I throw on a pair of black booty shorts that don’t really fit me well and the thinnest, tiniest sports bra I can find. It’s black and strappy and barely covers me and it’s exactly what I want.
I wore my hair down today and I leave it that way, though I never dance with my hair down. It gets in my face, turning into a sweaty, gross mess. But there will be no dancing this afternoon, not with West.
I don’t know what he wants from me exactly, but I know enough. And whatever I can’t figure out, I’m sure he’ll guide me.
When I arrive at the studio, I find him standing in front of the window that overlooks the campus gardens, his back to me, his hands still in his pockets though he’s removed his jacket. The white cotton shirt stretches across his shoulders, his back, and I stand there, silently admiring him, twisting my hands together while I worry that I might be in over my head.
Slowly, he turns his head, glancing over his shoulder to find me standing there, his expression impassive. No emotion shown whatsoever. “I don’t normally wait for girls.”
I want to roll my eyes. Of course, he would lead with a statement like that. His ego is boundless.
“Not sure if I’ll be worth the wait.” I move toward him, keeping my steps purposely slow. I decide to be completely honest. “I don’t know what I’m doing.”
He turns to face me fully, his gaze roving over me, my skin warming everywhere his eyes touch. “I’ll show you.”
I come to a stop in the middle of the room, my entire body trembling in anticipation.
“Is the door locked?” he asks.
“No.” I’m such an idiot.
“Go lock it then.”
I turn on my heel and run to the door, turning the lock with a finality that rings through the hollow room. My feet barely touch the ground as I make my way over to him, gliding across the floor like I’m dancing, and when I stop directly in front of him, I fully expect him to reach out and pull me into his arms.
I brace myself, ready for the onslaught of sensation I experience every time someone touches me, both dreading and looking forward to the moment, but he does none of that. Instead, his hands remain in his pockets and his gaze is heavy as it settles on my face.
“You don’t like to be touched.” He states it as fact.
Being called out for your faults is never easy. I’ve had it happen to me again and again over the years in dance, and I thought I’d hardened myself enough to withstand it, but West making that simple statement nearly sends me to my knees.
“Why don’t you like it?” he pushes when I remain silent.
“I don’t like … showing emotion. I never have.”
“Why not?”
“I don’t know.” I shrug. I’ve been to therapy, alone and with my family. I’ve been forced to talk about my feelings and issues in front of my parents, right after they expressed their worry for my wellbeing, which coincided with their divorce announcement. I withdrew into a shell, horrified by their arguments, by Whit’s cruel and cold behavior, and Sylvie’s chronic health issues.
I couldn’t take it. None of it. I tried my best to emulate my brother’s cold, callousness and I still do, but there’s a tiny part of me buried deep that feels too much.
It’s so much easier to feel nothing at all, I realized at an early age. Don’t react. Don’t cry. Don’t smile. Don’t let anyone touch you. Throw up that wall and don’t let anyone penetrate it.
I begged my parents to let me go to London to dance. It was the only thing that gave me pleasure, I told them. The only thing that mattered to me. They were reluctant, my father protesting loudly when my mother gave in to rid herself of me, but in the end, I got what I wanted.
Lancasters get what they want. I lived by that mantra once I was aware of it, until I was forced to go to this stupid prep school that doesn’t mean shit to me, even though it’s supposed to, thanks to my family owning it. And while I’m still despondent over the fact that I’m missing out on my regular dance classes and I’m afraid I’ll end up behind everyone else and never be able to claw my way back to the top, at least I have this.
At least I have West.
