“HOW’S SCHOOL? How are your classes?”
I tap my pencil against the edge of my desk, staring out the window that overlooks the campus grounds. It’s late afternoon and a storm is rolling in. The clouds are dark and heavy with rain and all evening practices and campus activities have been canceled for the night in preparation.
You’d think it had never rained at Lancaster Prep before, which is ridiculous. I just spent the last five years in London, where it rains all the time. I don’t understand the worry and the hype. Where I used to live, it was just any other day.
“It’s all right. My classes are boring,” I tell my sister, Sylvie. I’m shocked she called me. Usually, she’s so wrapped up in her own bullshit, she rarely thinks about me. “Why are you calling?”
“Can’t I call my little sister and check up on her?”
“Can’t you just text me and be done with it?” I return.
She sighs, and I can hear the irritation in that one simple sound. “Mother asked me to call you.”
“Why can’t she call me herself? Oh, I know why. I’ll just ignore it and not answer.” I toss the pencil across my bedroom, watching it land on the floor and roll underneath my bed.
“She’s worried about you.”
“Is that what she told you to tell me or did you come up with that yourself?”
My sister aggravates me, but not nearly as much as our mother. It feels like Sylvie doesn’t have a mind of her own. Like my sister’s life is completely run by our mother, and Sylvie has no problem with it. I couldn’t live like that.
That’s the reason I left home so young. To get away from my mother—not that she cared.
“I know she’s worried about you, Lina. She tells me all the time that you never talk to her.”
“I don’t want to talk to her. She’s psychotic.”
“That must be where I get it from,” Sylvie says, her voice tinged with amusement.
Her mental health issues—along with her physical health concerns—are well known yet confusing. No one can figure out exactly what’s wrong with my sister. Not any of the medical teams or group of specialists our mother has taken Sylvie to see. I personally think it’s all in her head, but maybe I’m wrong.
And then again, maybe I’m not.
“Are your classes hard? Is Matthews still there? He was headmaster when I went there,” Sylvie says, sounding nostalgic.
“Matthews is still headmaster, and no, the classes aren’t hard, save for American Government. I’m practically an English citizen, how am I expected to know and understand how the government here works?” I’m whining, but it’s Sylvie, and I know she’ll understand.
“I barely graduated, so do better than me, okay?” She makes a tsking noise. “At least you’ll be able to go back and dance once you’re done.”
“Hopefully.” My stomach dips. That’s my biggest worry. Will I be welcomed back with open arms at the dance company, or will they flat out reject me? Will I need to find somewhere else to dance? I’m sure I could, but I don’t want to. I want to go back to London.
I need everything to go back to normal.
“Oh, you will,” Sylvie says with the utmost confidence. I wish I felt that confident. “I can see it now. You’ll be dancing in London, the star of the show.”
We chat for a little longer until I say I have to go, ending the call on her before she can protest. I let my phone drop on my desk and rest my elbows on the edge, burying my face in my hands.
Talking to my family is exhausting. Pretending everything is perfectly fine is par for the course with my sister and especially my mother. I’m allowed to be a bit more vulnerable with my father, but with my brother? I don’t know how to act around Whit most of the time.
So, I avoid him at all costs.
Rising from my desk, I walk over to the window and stare outside. West and I haven’t really talked much, but we’ve definitely continued seeing each other. In class, during lunch, we act like we barely know each other, but after school he’ll show up at my dance studio and we’ll do … things.
All sorts of things.
Lots of kissing. To the point where my jaw hurts and my tongue is tired. I don’t flinch anymore when he touches me. Not really. I think I’m growing used to him.
I start expecting him to show up, anticipation curling through my blood, leaving me weak every time he appears. I could get addicted to this boy if I don’t watch it.
Maybe I already am.
He’s steering clear of Mercedes and I’m doing the same with Brent. Why would I provoke West? It’s pointless.
I did try to get Brent to have lunch with me and Sadie the day after she confessed she had a thing for him, but he kept putting me off. And Sadie essentially begged me to leave it alone, so I did.
Reluctantly.
I’m all for pairing up Sadie with Brent, but publicly pairing myself up with West? I don’t know if it’s logistically possible, and besides, it might be a terrible idea. Being with someone else. Letting someone have that kind of power over me completely.
It’s scary.
The longer I stand at the window, the further the sky darkens until the sun all but disappears and all I can see is gloomy skies. Lightning flashes in the distance, a silvery bolt of light across the sky, followed by the low rumble of thunder, and I wrap my arms around myself to ward off the sudden chill.
I spot someone walking along the sidewalk, his wide steps eating up the space, his gait determined. I recognize the color of his hair, the way he moves, and my heart leaps to my throat, threatening to cut off all my oxygen.
West.
And he’s heading right for my building.
Turning away from the window, I go to the full-length mirror hanging on my wall, grimacing at the sight that greets me. I look a mess. I’m still in my uniform, sans the jacket and my shoes, still wearing knee-high socks and my skirt, my white button-down wrinkled and untucked, hanging so long it practically covers the hem of my skirt. I wore my hair in a ponytail and there are so many stray strands sticking up all around my face, I look like I’ve been electrocuted.
Desperate, I run my fingers through my hair, trying to straighten the mess before I give up and tuck the shirt back into my skirt. I glance around, wishing I could change into something else. Something that would make me feel pretty and feminine, and just when my gaze lands on a few dresses that are hanging on the back of my closet door, there’s a loud, rapid-fire knock.
Swallowing hard, I move toward the door and lean my head against it. “Who is it?”
“It’s me,” West says, his voice brimming with confidence, he’s that assured I know who’s waiting for me on the other side.
Trying to hide my sudden desperation, I do my best to school my expression into something bland before I fling open the door and let him in, not surprised at all when he makes his way inside, his gaze curious as it slides all over my belongings.
“What do you want?” I ask, still keeping the door open.
He sends me a smirk from over his shoulder, walking deeper into my room. “Nice to see you too.”
I shut the door, silently reprimanding myself for sounding borderline hostile. “I’m just—surprised. You don’t usually come to my room.”
“I know. Guess I’m trying to change it up.” He hesitates. “I thought about it, and what if someone caught us in there? Together?”
God I’m so stupid. I always get so caught up in what we’re doing, I never think about someone finding us. “That would be …”
“Awful,” he finishes for me. He must see the alarm I suddenly feel in my expression because he’s quick to say, “Not that it’s bad we’re spending time together. We just don’t want to be—exposed yet. Right?”
“Yes.” I nod. “Right. So that’s why you’re here? In my room? Because it’s more private?”
“Yeah.” He turns to face me fully, his expression so neutral it’s almost annoying. “And I guess I also … missed you.”
I lean against the door, shocked by his admission. “You did?”
He stops next to my desk, his fingers drifting across the top of it, picking up a pen and holding it in his fingers, clicking it again and again. “Yeah. I did.”
My heart feels like it might crack in two, but I tell it to get over itself. “Well, I didn’t really miss you.”
“You didn’t?” He grins, seemingly pleased by my denial.
I lift my chin, giving a singular shake of my head. “We just saw each other earlier in class. And I’ve been busy. Between my studies and dance …”
“So you haven’t thought about me.”
“Nope.” I’m such a liar.
“Not at all.” He drops the pen on my desk and starts to approach me, his expression dark. Almost feral. As if he’s thinking of the many things he wants to do to me, none of them proper or kind.
My legs wobble and I lock my knees.
“Uh uh.”
He stops directly in front of me, his hand reaching out to hook into the space on my shirt between the buttons, sliding a single finger inside, brushing against my stomach. “I don’t believe you.”
“Y-you d-don’t?” I close my eyes, hating how I stuttered my words. Hating even more how weak I sound. He’s got me exactly where he wants me, and I’m positive he knows it.
“If I’ve been on your mind even half the amount of time that you’ve been on mine, then I’d call you …” He tugs me to him by pulling on my shirt, and I have no choice but to stumble my way toward him. “Obsessed.”
It’s the way he says the word, as if he’s tasting it. As if he’s imagining tasting me and I dare to lift my head, to find his gaze locked on my face, heavy and full of—dare I say—longing.
“You haven’t been to the dance studio yet?”
I frown. “How did you know?”
“You’re still in your uniform,” he points out.
“So are you,” I return.
“We should rectify that.” He removes his hold on my shirt, his fingers returning to the line of buttons as he starts to undo them.
I pull away from his grasp, turning my back to him, completely overstimulated. Panic grips at my heart, making it race, and I mentally tell myself to calm down. I had become somewhat used to his touch, but this moment feels different. You can’t just come into my room and start undressing me.”
He’s silent, and I worry I might’ve upset him. Maybe he’s even preparing to leave but then he speaks.
“You’re right. I shouldn’t assume.”
Shock courses through me, but I remain standing in front of my window once more, watching as the first drops of rain hit the ground, dotting the sidewalk over and over again until the concrete is a wet, dark gray. I brace my hand against the window frame, a shuddery breath leaving me when I feel him shift behind me, his breath stirring the hair at the back of my neck.
He doesn’t touch me. He doesn’t say a word. Just stands there and lets me get used to his presence. Oh so slowly, I find myself leaning back, leaning into him, knowing he’ll be there for me, which he is.
My spine connects with his chest and I close my eyes, melting into him. He reaches around me, his arm hovering, as is his hand, and I give my permission with the tiniest nod.
West settles his hand on my stomach, his fingers splayed, touching so much of me I feel owned. Possessed.
“Who did this to you?” he whispers, his voice so faint I almost don’t hear him. He just asked this question a few days ago, and it’s like he can’t let it go. “Who made you hate physical touch so badly?”
I dip my head and open my eyes, watching as he slides his fingers toward the buttons on my shirt, his fingers dropping, teasing at the hem. “I already told you. No one did it to me. I just—I trust no one.”
“You seem to trust me.” His hand swoops beneath my shirt, hot fingers resting against my stomach, burning into my skin.
“Not quite.”
“Enough for me to do this.” He toys with the waistband of my skirt and I watch his fingers slide beneath it, fascinated.
“I can’t stop wondering what you taste like,” he whispers in my ear, his hand sliding farther down, fingertips skimming along the top edge of my panties. “I’ve licked my fingers after they’ve been inside you, but it’s not enough.”
Thank God he’s holding me or I’d probably collapse on the floor.
“The visual of you on your knees with my cock stuffed in your mouth lives rent free in my mind,” he continues, and I lean my head back, resting it on his shoulder.
That memory lives in my mind too. It’s a good one.
Too good.
“All the times in your studio—it just gets better and better,” he says.
I don’t respond, but I definitely agree.
It does get better every time we’re together.
“I shouldn’t admit this to you. I’m sure it makes me sound weak.” His fingers creep beneath my panties, moving downward until he’s firmly cupping me. “But I can’t stop thinking about you.”
His fingers slip between my lower lips roughly, making me gasp. Making my pussy flood with moisture. He lifts up, like he’s trying to carry me with his hand curved around my pelvis and I lift my head, my neck fully exposed, his hand gripping my sex as if he wants to render me into two pieces.
“Always so wet.” His mouth moves against my neck, making me shiver. “I wonder how many times I can make you come tonight.”
“West.” His name is said on a moan, and I close my eyes, thrusting my hips forward as he continues to rub me aggressively, my clit already on fire. “Please …”
“Please what? Please stop? Please make me come? Please do it harder?” His fingers pause, my entire pussy throbbing, protesting when he stops rubbing me. “What do you want, Carolina?”
I don’t know how to tell him what I want without saying it in the crudest way possible, so that’s exactly what I do.
“I want you to fuck me.”
He goes completely still, the only thing moving is his thumb, which lightly brushes my distended clit. Every pass on my flesh lights a spark deep within me, making my breaths come faster and making me feel as if I’m going to collapse into convulsions.
“Not yet,” he mutters into my neck, his hand shifting so his palm presses directly into me, grinding on my clit, “I want to put my mouth on you first.”
A flash of lightning illuminates the sky, casting light into my room and my heart jumps. West remains unfazed, his mouth drifting up and down my neck as I ride his palm, thrusting my hips forward, trying to get more of that delicious friction.
“I told myself I would stay away from you tonight and give you a break, but I can’t.” He releases his hold on me completely, so fast I stumble forward and nearly fall onto the bed. “Get undressed.”
I do as he says without protest, confusion swirling within me. Why is he able to command me so easily? Why do I give in every single time?
Can’t worry about it now, I think as I undo the buttons on my shirt with shaky fingers, whipping it off my body and tossing it onto the floor. Next is my bra, which unhooks in the front and is gone in a matter of seconds. Years in dance, competing, recitals, rehearsals … teaches you how to change quickly.
I’m about to take off my skirt when his firm voice makes me freeze.
“Leave the skirt on.” He pauses. “But take off your panties.”
I stare at him, surprised by his demand. Surprised even more at the way my panties flood with moisture at the image his request brings to mind.
Never taking my gaze off him, I slip my hands beneath my skirt and reach for the waistband of my panties, slowly tugging them down until they appear just beneath my skirt, wrapped around my knees.
“Let them fall,” he says, and I stand up straight, my panties falling down my legs until they land around my ankles. “Kick them off.”
I step one foot out of them, then kick the scrap of cotton to the side with the other. Until I’m standing there, basically naked, with only the plaid skirt covering me. My nipples are so hard they ache, and I flinch when another flash of lightning shines into my room. I feel blatantly on display, the sound of the cold, harsh wind outside making me shiver, and I jump when West says, “Sit on the edge of the bed.”
Again, I do as he says, appreciating the commands. I have no idea what I’m doing and it’s obvious that he does, so I’m grateful for the instruction. It’s almost like dance. I’m told how to position myself. Where to go and how to do it. I’ve been treated this way my entire life.
There’s comfort in that, as odd as it sounds.
I sit there with my hands twisted in my lap, my head bent, my hair falling like a curtain on either side of my face. I watch the floor as he takes a few steps forward, until his feet are directly in front of my bare ones, his black dress shoes so shiny, I can almost see my reflection in them.
He’s completely dressed, while I’m basically naked, and everything within me draws up tight at the realization. I curl my bare toes inward, suddenly ashamed of my ugly dancer’s feet, and when I feel his fingers drift over the top of my head, I almost cry out in relief. His touching me feels like approval and I desperately need it.
“All this pretty blonde hair,” he murmurs. “You Lancasters all look the same.”
His words almost hurt. I don’t want to be lumped in with the rest of them.
“Yet you’re blonder. Your eyes.” His fingers slip beneath my chin, tilting my face up so I have no choice but to meet his gaze. “Bluer.”
I’m trembling. Nervous. Excited. The back of my arms rub against my nipples, making them ache even more, and he strokes his thumb across my chin, looking pleased.
With me.
“Lie back,” he practically croons, and as if I’m under his spell, I lie down on the bed, my gaze never shifting from his, my skirt rising with the movement, nearly exposing my most private spot.
West takes a step back, his gaze roaming over me, heat lighting my skin everywhere his eyes land. What he’s doing to me is exquisite torture, and I don’t ever want it to end.
Why did I stay away from him again? Why did we maintain our distance from each other? It doesn’t make any sense. Not when we could’ve been doing this for the last few days.
“Lift your skirt,” he says, and I curl my fingers around the hem, pulling it up slowly, until I’m fully exposed. “Spread your legs. I want to see it.”
I spread them, the air hitting my damp pussy, making me suck in a breath.
He’s silent, studying me, and I want to squirm. I want to cry out in frustration and beg him to do something. Anything.
“Touch yourself.”
I go still, lifting my head a little in question.
“Go on.” He nods, waving his hand. “Touch yourself. I want to watch.”
I rest my right hand on my stomach and slide it down. Over the slope of my belly, until my fingers are touching my pubic hair. I don’t dare go any farther, suddenly afraid.
I’ve never really touched myself like this before. Well, I did earlier but that doesn’t really count. I’ve never viewed my body as a sexual vessel. I’ve always seen it as a machine that could twirl and spin and jump and leap. That’s it.
“Do it, Carolina.” I close my eyes, fighting the humiliation I feel over my hesitation. “If you don’t touch yourself, I won’t touch you either.”
