THREE YEARS ago
“Make a choice,” Mother hisses as she roughly grabs my arm, her hold firm.
Bruising.
I jerk out of her grip, rubbing the spot where she touched me before I fix my glare on her. It has zero effect, as usual. “No. What you’re asking of me is impossible.”
A delicate brow arches. My mother is classically beautiful. Modernly preserved. Nary a wrinkle in sight, not that anyone cares. My father left her years ago. She has no man in her life. Nothing to focus her attention on.
Just me.
“Nothing is impossible, darling. You of all people should know this. Look at you. You’re a living miracle.”
White hot rage turns my blood to ice. The only reason I’m still alive is because I figured out what she was doing to me—convincing a team of doctors for years that something was wrong with me, when I was perfectly fine.
Perfectly healthy.
All while she poisoned me with unknown toxins. Deprived me of healthy essentials. Kept me up so I could never sleep, making me look and act worse and worse.
I swear I have a faded memory of her holding a pillow over my face while I struggled to breathe. Did that actually happen? Or is it a figment of my overactive imagination?
I’m still not sure.
Despite my confronting her several times, calling her out for what she’s done to me, she pretends those conversations never happened—and so do I. The winter of my junior year in high school, when I almost overdosed by my own hand versus whatever she was doing to me, she finally stopped with her charade. Her theatrics.
But she’s given one hell of a performance throughout my life. Downright award-winning. Always the frantic, concerned mother unable to help her poor, sickly daughter. It took me some time, but I first suspected what she was doing around the age of eight.
Eight.
Then I immediately put the thought out of my head because no one ever wants to admit their mother would do something so horrible to them. I couldn’t fathom her cruelty, until I had to finally face the fact that she wanted me dead.
But why? For attention? That’s the only thing I could figure. My father neglected her. My brother avoided her and my sister pretended she didn’t exist.
So she turned all of her diabolical focus on me. Her own life was complete chaos, and the only thing she could control was me.
Ironic that I nearly died because of my own choices, not hers. I was distraught back then, and I felt abandoned. I turned on my best friend and ruined that relationship. There was no point in going on. My entire life felt like a lie. Or so I thought.
Turns out, my mother still has plans for me—to send me to another sort of death.
“And I’m at least giving you options,” she continues. Her smile is cold, her gaze calculating. “So go ahead. Make your choice.”
We’re in her study at the Manhattan penthouse, though we could be anywhere and still have this battle. We clash all the time, ever since I was little. It’s as if this is the only way we know how to communicate—by tearing each other down.
My older brother Whit dismisses our mother so wholeheartedly that it takes her breath away every time he does it, which is often. My younger sister Carolina threw herself into studying ballet, so she wouldn’t have to deal with our mother’s controlling ways. She left home at thirteen and never came back.
That was years ago. And I always found it funny that she chose ballet, considering it’s the most rigid, controlling form of dance there is, and Carolina still went to it in search of freedom. That’s how domineering our mother is—when someone allows her to be.
That’s me. The one with Mommy issues, the one who’s constantly seeking her attention. Her approval. Her acceptance. Despite her almost killing me, I still want her love. Crave it, even.
Much to my eternal shame, I am the only one out of the three of us our mother can actually manipulate.
“Well?” Mother’s sharp voice snaps me out of my reverie and I blink at her, momentarily confused. Within seconds though, it all comes flooding back.
My decision. My supposed choice. Which man shall I marry, Mother? Perhaps Mr. Mid-Life Crisis? Or Mr. Older Than Dirt?
I don’t know which one is worse.
“Give me until tomorrow.” I stand up straighter, lifting my chin, internally searching for strength, but coming up woefully empty. “I will give you my answer then.”
“Giving you any amount of extra time is dangerous. You know this.” Mother crosses her arms, her gaze sweeping over me, her disapproval obvious. “Don’t try and run away from me, darling. I will find you. I always do.”
“Oh, I know.” I smile, but it feels forced, so I stop. “I don’t plan on running away.”
What’s the point? She’s right. She always finds me.
No one can save me now. Not even the boy who always swore he would run to my defense.
I think of that boy and can’t help the small smile that curls my lips. Sweet, dumb Spencer Donato. He tolerates me like no other, which drives me mad. His father may have supposed mafia ties—that’s the rumor, anyway—but Spence takes more after his sweet, loyal mother from the Midwest. He’s always been the one I can count on to help me forget.
At least for a little while.
“Good.” She takes a few steps, as if she’s going to leave the room, but then stops directly in front of me instead. “You know I’m only watching out for you, Sylvie. You can’t take care of yourself, not after everything that’s happened. You need someone to guide you, and what better choice than an older, wiser man for your husband? To get with someone your own age could end up being a—mistake.”
I say nothing. I’ve already come into one inheritance. The trust fund becomes mine, without stipulations, when I turn twenty-one, which is in less than two years. I assume she believes I would waste every last dollar, and there are hundreds of millions of them in that trust fund.
She doesn’t trust me. She never has.
Which puts us on an even playing field, because I don’t trust her either.
“Like that sweet teddy bear of yours. Spencer.” I flinch at her saying his name out loud, and she catches it. Of course, she does. Many others would consider the smile that appears to be kind, but I know it’s not. She dispatched her weapon, and it wounded me, just as she’d hoped. “He doesn’t understand our world, darling. Not really. He’s more like his simple-minded mother.”
Sylvia Lancaster likes no one, respects no one. She believes she’s above it all.
“His family is very rich—” I start, always trying to defend him, but she cuts me off.
“Not like our wealth. Not even close. And besides, so much of his family’s money is—tainted.” She mock shudders. “It’s best to cut him off. Don’t you think? For all we know, he’s working closely with his father now.”
I don’t bother responding. We don’t know what he’s doing. I don’t ask him. We haven’t spoken in months. His social media says he’s a student at NYU, but is he really? I don’t know.
If my mother has her way, I never will.
“You need someone who is solid. Established. Like the choices I gave you. They’re both excellent, and no matter who you end up marrying, they’ll take care of you, even with your—ailments.”
My ailments. What a sweet little way to put how she fucked me up so hard mentally since I was a child. It’s the same thing she’s said to me for years. Since the first time she took me to a doctor’s office in the hopes they could figure out what was wrong with me.
Everything’s wrong with me, I’ve concluded. I’m a mess. Who would want me?
According to what my mother said earlier, Earl Wainwright the fourth has put in the highest bid for me, followed by another, much older gentleman whose name I’ve already forgotten.
Earl is near seventy. Divorced and lonely and looking for a pretty young thing to escort to social events.
He wants me. And she’s offered me to him for a most tidy sum. Not quite sure how much, but I know she recently lost some money in a bad investment.
A shiver moves through me at the realization that I’ve been promised to someone.
When my heart belongs to someone else. It always has.
And always will.
I knock so hard on the door it hurts my knuckles. I’m soothing them with my tongue, while clutching a chilled bottle of champagne in my other hand, when the door suddenly swings open.
Spencer is standing there, surprise etched all over his handsome face when he sees me on his doorstep, licking the back of my hand. “How did you get in the building?”
Pausing, I glare at him, dropping my injured hand to my side.
No, hello, come in.
No, oh my God, I’ve missed you so much, Sylvie.
None of that. He just wants to know how I snuck into the building.
“I gave the doorman a hand job.” I push past him and enter the apartment, glancing around the clean, uncluttered space, doing my best to blink back the tears.
Now is not the time to be sad. I have a mission to complete.
“Aren’t you glad to see me?” It’s been months since we were last together, and he’s grown tired of my games.
Those were the exact words he used, and at the time, they hurt. They still do, but I’m desperate to see him. Touch him.
Hold him one last time.
I turn to face Spence, lifting up the bottle of champagne, wishing I’d already downed some so I could feel that fizziness bubbling in my throat. Tickling in my stomach. Tingling across my skin.
He finishes locking the door before he slowly approaches me, wariness oozing from his every pore. I drink him in greedily, like this is the last time I’ll ever see him, and for all I know, that could be the truth.
Spencer is unbearably handsome, even more so now that he’s older and filled out completely. All dark eyes and dark hair, sinful decadence, like extra rich chocolate. Broad shoulders and wide chest and so, so tall, especially compared to me.
I’m tiny. Like a little sprite. That’s what he called me one time, when we were both still at Lancaster Prep and I snuck him into my dorm room so he could have his wicked way with me.
We did that a lot back then. Sneaking around. I miss it.
I miss him.
Last time we saw each other though, we were in the city. Here at his apartment. I showed up unexpectedly, as I’m wont to do, and he tried to get me to leave. Like I interrupted him, when no one was here.
That I know of.
I might’ve yelled at him. I might’ve also told him I never wanted to see him again.
I lie. All the time. He knows this.
“I thought you hated me.” His voice is flat, as is his gaze when he levels it on me, which fills my entire body with dread.
“Oh, I do hate you, Spencer. I shouldn’t be here. This is a mistake, my showing up on your doorstep. You know it. I know it.” I pause, noting the frustrated flare that lights up his eyes, which tells me he cares. At least a little bit. “Doesn’t mean I don’t want something from you, though.”
He says nothing as I walk right up to him, grabbing hold of the front of his shirt and jerking on it so he has no choice but to dip his head. His mouth hovers above mine, full and ripe and tempting as sin. My lips find his, and I nibble on them for only a teasing moment before pulling away. “Let’s get drunk.”
“Sylvie…”
“I need to get drunk, Spencer. It’s a special occasion tonight.” My voice is hushed. Almost hoarse. I’m terrified he’s going to say no.
“What’s the occasion?” His gaze roves over my face, as if he’s memorizing every tiny feature. The blemishes and the scars. He’s the only one who sees me for who I really am. Yet he doesn’t push me away. He doesn’t try to change me either.
There is no one else like Spencer Donato.
No one.
“I need to get drunk, so I can work up the nerve to actually fuck you for once.” I let go of his shirt and march into his kitchen, setting the bottle of champagne on the counter before I start pulling open each and every cabinet door until I finally find what I want.
Champagne glasses.
How I knew he would have some, I’m not sure, but I’ve spent plenty of time in his family’s apartment in the past to know they’re fully stocked with everything, especially when it comes to liquor.
He follows me into the kitchen, turning on the lights. I point at where I left the bottle on the counter. “Open it for me, please?”
He rolls up the sleeves of his dark blue button-down shirt and gets to work, eventually pulling the cork from the bottle, the loud pop startling me. I stare at his strong forearms as he grabs a glass and carefully pours the champagne inside before he hands it over to me, then pours one for himself.
I lift the glass toward him, my hand shaky. “Cheers.”
“To what?” His voice is low. Calm.
Hearing his question, seeing the look on his face…
Destroys me.
I smile and lock my knees, my act in full force. Pretending that it’s just me and him, when after tonight, there will be no more us. I’m promised to another, when I always meant to be promised to Spencer. “To the future.”
He clinks his glass against mine and we each drink, our gazes locked on each other. He sips while I chug, draining the glass within seconds, then setting it on the counter. I grab the bottle and give myself a refill and turn to offer more to Spence, but he’s barely touched his champagne.
Shrugging, I fill the glass too much, causing it to overflow. Laughing, I grab my glass, not caring that champagne is spilling everywhere. All over the counter. My coat. My neck. My lips. I drink and drink, growing hotter with every swallow.
“Why are you wearing a coat, Syl?” he asks, snatching the empty glass out of my hand before I can pour myself yet another one.
I’ve lost count of how many I’ve had, but I know it’s not enough.
“Hey.” I glare at him. “I want more.”
“Take off your coat. Stay a while. We’ve got all night.”
He doesn’t understand. I don’t have all night. I probably have a couple of hours, tops, before I must return home. Mother’s doing God knows what, leaving me to my own devices, which was her first mistake. I took the opportunity to make my escape, knowing this was my last chance. My last night.
With Spencer.
“You want me to take off my coat?” It’s constructed of thick black wool, with a faux fur collar and a belt cinched tightly at the waist, reminding everyone how horribly thin I am.
“Aren’t you hot?” A dark brow shoots up as he contemplates me.
“Just you wait.” I untie the belt and shrug the coat off of me, so it lands in a pile at my feet.
Revealing that I’m completely naked. An offering to the only man I can stand touching me.
His eyes go wide, and he shifts them up to mine, never breaking our stare. “Sylvie…”
I step toward him, slinging my arms around his neck, brushing my naked body against his. “Fuck me, Spence.”
“What are you doing?” He keeps his gaze glued on my face, his hands resting lightly on my hips. As if he’s afraid to touch me.
“I want you.” I rise on tiptoe and press my mouth to his, my eyes tightly closed. He returns the kiss for only a second, then jerks his head back. I fall back onto my heels, my eyes opening to find his gaze full of concern as he studies me, and I hate it. I don’t want him worried. I want him to fuck me. “Don’t look at me like that.”
“What happened? Tell me.”
He’s too smart. He can always figure me out.
“Nothing.” I smile, reaching between us to settle my hand over his burgeoning erection. I can make him hard, just by looking at me.
“You’re lying.” His voice is irritatingly calm and I suddenly want to scream. Pull my hair out and ask why life has to be so damn unfair.
“I swear, you’re the only man I know who would question a naked girl’s motives. Don’t you get it? I want to consummate our relationship, Spence. Haven’t I teased you long enough?” I smile at him, my limbs growing languid, thanks to the alcohol mixing with the pills I took earlier. Though I need to be careful. I don’t want to pass out and miss all the fun. “No other man would do this. They’d pick me up and take me straight to bed.”
“I know how you are, Syl. You’re worrying me.”
“I’m fine.” I clear my throat. “Really. Just fine.”
Maybe if I say it enough, I’ll start to believe it.
“Fine?”
“Yes.” I stand taller, suddenly desperate to down more champagne. “Now take me to bed.”
He snags my hand and pulls me even closer to him, his lips curled into a lecherous smile as he whispers, “Who says I want to fuck you in a bed?”
I blink up at him, trying to ignore the sudden throb between my legs. “I’m a young, virginal girl. You want to…what? Take me against a wall? Fuck me right here in the kitchen, maybe?” I pull out of his embrace and haul myself onto the kitchen counter, the marble cold beneath my butt. “Come here.” I reach for him, but he’s not close enough. “Let’s test the height.”
I slowly spread my legs as he approaches, allowing him to step between them. He settles his hands on the insides of my thighs, lightly caressing, little sparks igniting on my skin from his touch. “Young, virginal girl,” he murmurs, his deep voice making gooseflesh rise. “There is nothing virginal about you, Sylvie.”
“Except my intact hymen.” I can’t concentrate when he touches me like that, running his fingers back and forth, drawing closer and closer to my pussy, only to skitter away. He knows where I want him, and he won’t give it to me. “My doctor just proved to my mother that I’m virginal in every way.”
His lids lift, those dark brown eyes of his searing into mine. “You have the most fucked-up doctor—and mother—on the planet.”
God, the truth hurts.
“It’s not his fault. He only does what my mother asks,” I say softly, sinking my teeth into my lower lip when his fingers lightly brush against my wetness. Testing me. Teasing me. “She’s selling me off to the highest bidder.”
His fingers pause in their exploration. “What do you mean?”
I reach for the front of his shirt and slowly start undoing the buttons, keeping my gaze on the task rather than look him in the eye when I say, “I’m to be engaged, Spencer. I’m sure the announcement will be made soon.”
“To who?”
“You don’t know him. He’s an investment banker. Much, much older, and so worldly. He’ll teach me things, I’m sure. Mother paid him off, so I’m not her problem anymore, since killing me with false illnesses didn’t work.” The words pour out of me, one after the other, as if I have no control over them.
A chuckle leaves him, and he resumes his search, his thumb pressing against my clit, making me hiss. “You’re funny, Syl.”
I didn’t expect him to believe me. I’ve said this sort of shit before, but it’s never come true. I haven’t died. I haven’t been shipped off to Australia, I haven’t been committed to a mental facility, I haven’t turned into a lesbian, I haven’t gone to Harvard.
All things I swore to Spencer would happen, but didn’t.
I am the consummate liar. The eccentric rich girl who does what she wants. Says what she wants. Buys whatever she desires.
That’s what it looks like to the outside world, but here, right now? With this boy who’s now a man?
I’m as real as I can get. And still, he doesn’t believe me. I wish he could see through my façade. Most of the time he can, but lately, I’m not sure who the real me is anymore.
Pushing aside my melancholy, I concentrate on what’s happening. How he’s touching me. I need to chase after the feeling I experience only with Spencer. That’s my goal tonight.
The only goal.
Leaning back, I prop my hands on the counter, my entire body trembling as he drifts his fingers across my sensitive skin. “I’m serious, Spence. The next chapter of my life starts with, ‘Once upon a wedding…’ Isn’t that romantic?”
He ignores what I say, his gaze focused on where he strokes me. “You told me you would never get married.”
“Guess I lied. Are you really that surprised?” When his gaze meets mine, I lift my brows. “That’s what I thought.”
“Did you take anything before you came here?” His fingers pause in their exploration and a frustrated whimper sounds from low in my throat.
“Of course not,” I lie, spreading my legs wider. As wide as they can get. “Make me come, Spencer. I need it.”
I start to move with his stroking fingers, undulating my hips. Biting my lower lip when those assured fingers slide inside me. He pumps them slowly, curling his fingers and nudging that mysterious spot that has me seeing stars.
“Look at you,” he murmurs, his gaze on his hand as he strokes me. “Wet and naked on my kitchen counter. You’re like a dream come true.”
A dream that won’t last, is what I want to say, but I don’t.
Instead, I breathe out a sigh, arching my hips upward.
He doesn’t let up. No, he makes everything worse when he leans over me, his tongue lashing across one hard nipple, then the other, leaving them wet and aching. I can’t look away, my lips parted as he fucks me with his fingers and sucks at my nipples with his mouth. My normally buttoned-up Spence is sinfully sexy, with his shirt partially undone, showing off those rippling abs he always keeps under wraps.
Is it wrong that I only seek him out when I’m scared? When I know everything is about to fall apart? Habits are so very hard to break, and ever since I left Lancaster Prep, we’ve played it this way every single time. Getting each other off. Saying stupid shit that devolves into a raging argument that has me storming out, slamming the door behind me. Vowing to never see him again.
That’s always a lie.
The problem is, lately, my stupid shit has become real.
Yet he thinks it’s still a game.
This is what happens when you’re young and rich, and seemingly don’t have a care in the world. You pretend that life is one giant game and you’re in it to win it.
Spence doesn’t even realize that I’ve already lost. I’m taking one last thing just for me before I have to settle for my consolation prize.
“You ever have a girl show up on your doorstep, wearing just a coat and nothing else?” I lie back on my elbows, grateful for the long, wide counters in his kitchen, a gasp escaping me when he ducks down and puts his mouth on me.
I close my eyes on a moan and reach for his head, sinking my fingers into his thick, soft hair and holding him to me as he licks every inch of my pussy. He teases my hole with his tongue. Laps at my clit, circling it, flicking it.
Driving me out of my mind.
His hands settle on my hips, pulling me forward as he lifts away from me, my fingers slipping from his hair. “Can’t say that I have.”
I don’t even know what he’s talking about anymore, but it doesn’t matter. When he returns his attention to my pussy, I revel in the rhythm of his tongue, his hands tugging on my hips, moving me with him. Blindly, I reach out, my hand accidentally slapping at one of the discarded champagne glasses and it rolls off the counter, falling onto the floor in a delicate tinkle of glass.
“Don’t hurt yourself,” I whisper, hoping the glass didn’t hit him.
He doesn’t say a word. Only murmurs against my flesh, the sensation driving me wild. I buck against his seeking mouth, rising up to grip his hair with both hands, staring down at him while he gazes up at me.
The look in his eyes is what does it for me. His mouth on my pussy, his fingers pressed deep. The wave rises, washing over me so suddenly, I shout his name, screaming my pleasure as I ride it out on his face.
His beautiful, beloved face.
When it’s over, he gathers me in his arms and carries me out of the kitchen, sidestepping any glass. He takes me to his bedroom, depositing me in the center of the mattress. I lie there like a heap of bones, still breathless, my gaze never leaving him as he strips himself of his clothes. Until he’s just as naked as me. Erect and huge.
All for me.
He approaches the bed, crawling on it from the bottom like a predatory animal, until he’s right over me, caging me in. I stare up at him, curling my finger around the thin gold chain he always wears, tugging him down until his mouth is barely brushing mine. The rich, earthy scent of my pussy still clings to his mouth and chin, and I lick at his skin, savoring the taste.
“You’re going to fuck me for real this time,” I whisper. “Do you understand?”
I’ve always been the one who pushed him away at the last second, too afraid to go on. Once I got my period, Mother spoke of my virginity as a precious gift you give to the man you’re to marry, and no one else.
Did I want to be a slut? She would ask me that question often. Did I want to spread my legs and give it up to every man who said I was pretty?
No ma’am, I would always respond, my voice quivering.
I guarded my virginity with my very being, not that anyone wanted me like that. For the longest time, I wasn’t in school enough for any boy to be interested in me.
Until Spencer. From the moment we locked eyes, I knew.
I knew.
I’ve done so many things. So many other things than actual sex with Spence. Oh, I’ve kissed a few other boys too. Let a couple of them feel me up even. But most every sexual encounter I’ve had has been with Spencer.
Except for this one thing.
When your mother has you go in for regular examinations to ensure your virginity is still provable, you do what she wants. I’ve never believed I’ve ever had an option. Despite my being an adult, I still have a difficult time leaving my mother. A small part of me needs her.
How twisted is that?
Marrying me off to someone she chose reminds me that I don’t belong to myself. I never really have. My virginity is no longer mine to guard, and I’m giving it away, consequences be damned, despite me being promised to another.
And it’s not this man who currently hovers over me, his thick cock resting against my belly, leaving a wet streak. Proof of his desire for me. With my other hand, I reach for him, my fingertips brushing against the head, making it twitch.
He exhales raggedly and hangs his head, breathing deep. As if he needs to regain some sort of control. “You don’t really want this.”
Now he’s the one who pushes me away. I’ve had his cock in my mouth, his hands all over me. Yet he’s rejecting me because he knows how much this—my precious virginity—means to me.
To my mother.
It’s sick how involved she is in my life.
“I do want it. With you.” I tug on the chain again, our mouths melting together, our tongues tangling. Stroking. Stoking the fire that always burns within me when I’m with this boy.
Man. He’s a man now. And I’m an engaged woman.
About to fuck someone who is not my future husband.
I stroke his cock, and he slowly thrusts it against my palm, groaning into my mouth. My body feels empty, my inner walls clenching around nothing. For once, I just want to know what it’s like. What he feels like inside of me. Fingers aren’t enough. His mouth—while absolutely divine—isn’t enough.
I need more.
“Let me grab a condom.” He leans over me, reaching for the nightstand, pulling the drawer open. I try not to think of Spencer with other girls, but I can’t help it.
He keeps condoms in his bedside table. How many girls has he brought to this apartment? How many girls has he fucked? We’ve never had a spoken commitment, yet we’re continuously drawn to each other. We weave in and out of each other’s lives constantly. I’ve gone months without seeing him.
I can have no expectations. No demands. It’s not my right, despite how much I care about him.
Care is not a good enough word. I love Spencer. I do. I just can’t work up the courage to say the word out loud.
“We don’t need a condom. I’m on the pill.” I’m testing him to see if he says he should wear one because he’s been with others, but he doesn’t say anything.
Not at first.
“What do you mean, you’re on the pill?” His gaze is questioning when it finds mine.
“I thought it best to be prepared.”
“And how long have you been prepared?”
I lift one shoulder, playing nonchalant. “Don’t worry about it.”
His gaze is steady—and too intense. I finally look away from him, swallowing hard. If he rejects me right now…
I don’t know what I’ll do.
But he doesn’t. Of course, he doesn’t. He has me spread open beneath him, ready and willing. He can’t turn me away.
Instead, he shuts the drawer and resumes his position over me, rising up on his knees, his fingers wrapped around the base of his erection. He strokes himself, my mouth growing dry the longer I watch, and I realize I’m running out of time.
I need him to do this. Now.
Spreading my legs, I show him everything I have. His gaze drops, naturally. Zeroed in on glistening rose-colored flesh. I reach between my legs and stroke myself, the wet sounds making me wetter. “Please,” I whisper.
I never beg. From the look on his face, he knows it.
“I want you inside me.”
He strokes himself some more, his cock red. Almost angry looking.
“Please, Spence.” I close my eyes, whimpering. “I need you.”
Without hesitation, he looms over me, guiding his cock inside my willing body. I inhale the moment I feel him breach the entrance, my thighs stiffening, my entire body going rigid.
All willingness leaves me, fear replacing it completely.
“Relax,” he whispers, his mouth against mine, just before he steals it for a long, tongue-filled kiss. The longer he does that, the easier it is for me to do as he says and relax. I begin to realize he’s filling me, inch by unbearable inch, stealing my breath the farther he slips in, until his cock is fully inside my body.
My inner walls clench around him this time and it’s like a jolt runs through me, electrifying my blood and my skin and my bones. There’s a pinch. A sting as he starts to pull out, only for him to thrust inside again and this time…
This time, there’s no pinch. No sting.
Spence moves and I do too, completely fascinated with every little thing he’s doing. The way his hands are braced on the bed on either side of my head. The sway of his necklace as he pushes in and out of me. The sheen of sweat forming on his forehead and his chest. The curling dark hair in the center of his pecs, hair that wasn’t really there when he was seventeen and we’d get naked, hidden away in my room at Lancaster Prep, so he could finger me, and I would jerk him off.
Oh, those were good days. When my worries had nothing to do with future husbands and babies and all of that horribly responsible adult-type shit. When I could just be with Spence without a care.
“Fuck, Sylvie,” he grits out, sounding as if he’s in pain. “You’re so tight.”
“Too tight?” I ask, like the virginal idiot I am.
He chuckles. “Never.” Then dips his head for a kiss. “You’re squeezing me so hard I’m going to come in minutes.”
Good. I want him to come in minutes. We should hurry. This is my last shot to be with Spencer before I have to give him up forever.
He must sense when my muscles warm and loosen because, soon enough, he’s fucking me in earnest. Fucking me hard. The slap of our skin connecting fills the room, as does the scent of sex. Despite the earlier orgasm I experienced, my body is fired up and ready to go, and I reach between us, my fingers finding my swollen clit as I begin to stroke.
Spence bats my hand away, his rough fingers drawing tinier and tinier circles around it, until I’m throwing my head back, unable to breathe as a second orgasm rockets through me, leaving me breathless.
Mindless.
“Fuck,” he grits out, right as I feel that first splash of cum deep within me. Soon enough, I’m flooded, his thrusts never slowing as he rams himself inside me, a ragged groan sounding low in his throat.
I rub his back when he slumps on top of me. Up and down, tracing along his smooth skin, breathing in the scent of his cologne. His shampoo. He’s still embedded inside me, and I wonder if I’ll always remember what this moment felt like when I think of Spence.
How he’s become a part of me.
“I’m too heavy.” He starts to pull away, but I grip him tighter, keeping him from leaving.
“No,” I whisper, swallowing hard. Past the thick emotion coating my throat, making me want to cry. “Don’t go. Not yet.”
He lies there for a moment, giving in to my request, until he can’t take it any longer. When he pulls out of me, semen gushes, wetting my thighs and the bed beneath me, and I feel hollow. Empty. I almost want to push his semen back inside, so I can take a piece of him with me when I leave, but I don’t.
I don’t want him to ask why.
“I should’ve worn a condom.” He falls onto his side next to me, his hand reaching between my legs to gather up the cum.
I slap his hand away, then immediately regret it. “Leave it. I’m fine.”
He rubs me, up and down, his fingers slow. Gentle. “There’s blood.” He holds up his fingers to show the streaks of blood mixed with his semen. “You really were a virgin.”
“Did you ever doubt me?” My voice is small. Hurt.
“Not really,” he says, his hand leaving me completely when I glare at him. “Come on, Syl. You tend to say a lot of crazy shit.”
My glare softens. He’s right.
“But you know you’re the only one for me,” he murmurs, the sincere glow in his gaze overwhelming.
“You’ll say anything to get a girl into your bed,” I tease, needing to lighten the moment.
The sincerity is replaced with pain, but I ignore it.
“Did you like it when I came inside you?” he asks, almost sounding…shy?
My sweet, sweet Spence. He’s a romantic. A knight in shining armor. Always running to my rescue.
Nothing can save me now, though. Not even him.
I arch a brow. “Have you ever come inside a girl before? Bare? Without a condom?”
Slowly, he shakes his head, leaning in for another kiss. “Never.”
“Promise?” Stopping him from kissing me, I rest my hand on his chest, right over his still rapidly pounding heart.
“Yes,” he whispers against my lips, his tongue slipping between them as his fingers slip inside me once more. He toys with my pussy, his fingers finding my still sensitive clit, and my body responds like the whore it is for this man. “I want to make you come again.”
“But I’m so tired.” I roll away from his seeking fingers, hating that I’m pushing him away.
If I could, I would let him fuck me all night long, let him make me come again and again. But we can’t do that.
We’ve run out of time.
He doesn’t have to speak a word, but I can feel his frustration with me. It lingers on his skin, echoes in his voice when he insists, “Sylvie. Let me. You know you want it.”
“No, I don’t. I need to sleep.” I glance over my shoulder at him, ignoring the pouty expression on his too handsome face. He is so hard to resist, but I have to. “That was my first time, Spencer. I’m sore.”
I’m really not, but I need to get out of here.
“Aw. My poor baby.” He doesn’t argue with me anymore. Just pulls me to him, my back to his front, his muscular arms sliding around my torso, those big hands splayed across my stomach, holding me in place. I can feel his cock nudge my butt. He’s still aroused. If I don’t watch it, we could get carried away and he’d be inside me again. It would be so easy. It’s always easy between Spence and me—until it’s not. “Let me get a washcloth. I’ll clean you up.”
“No.” I shake my head, my hair brushing against his face, and he pushes it away. “Just—let me lie here and close my eyes. It’ll only be for a few minutes.”
“Okay.” He kisses my temple, his lips lingering. I feel him breathe me in, as if he’s savoring my scent, and my heart, I swear to God, it cracks.
Wide open, spilling all of my pent-up emotions out. Everywhere. I could bleed out in this bed and die in this boy’s arms, and no one would question it. Least of all me. He kills me in the absolute sweetest way. Eventually, I’m going to hurt him, and he’s going to hate me. I’ll have to live with myself for that, whether I like it or not.
We say nothing, the quietness of his apartment momentarily lulling me to sleep. Until I startle awake what feels like only minutes later, though I’m clueless to the time. The room is dark. I can hear the city noise outside in the distance. The honk of a horn. The wail of a siren.
I need to go.
Staying still, I hone in on Spence’s steady breathing. It’s slow and deep. He’s fast asleep. He’s always been able to fall asleep quickly.
I envy him that.
Carefully, so I don’t disturb him, I slip out of bed, turning back to look at him one last time before I go.
He’s lying on his side, the blanket drawn up to his waist, his eyes closed and his lips parted. He looks so peaceful. So beautiful. His dark brown hair tumbles across his forehead, and I long to push it back. Kiss his forehead. Breathe him in much like he did to me earlier.
Whisper that I love him.
I do none of that. I stare at him for a moment longer, trying to imprint this moment on my brain for future memories, and then I flee the bedroom, running down the hall naked, going into the kitchen in search of my coat. I snatch it up from the floor and slip it on, stepping right onto the glass I broke with a wince, biting my lip so I don’t cry out.
There’s no time for me to pull glass out of my foot, though I do brush at it quickly. I slip into my stiletto sandals, tie the coat belt tight around my waist once more, and check the pocket for my phone.
Pulling it out, I note the time on the screen, worry flashing through me. I’ve been gone longer than anticipated.
Mother might be in search of me.
Fear floods me and I ignore the notifications on my phone, shoving it back into my coat pocket. I scurry out of his apartment, slowly pulling the door closed. I take the elevator down to the ground floor, waving at the doorman I bribed earlier with his favorite cookies from a nearby bakery, exiting the building in a blur.
I’ve visited Spence enough over the years for the doorman to recognize me, but I always like to give him a little treat for never giving me any trouble.
Only when I’m in the back seat of my car and on my way home, do I feel brave enough to check my phone’s notifications. There’s a text from Mother.
Of course, there is.
Come home now.
I’m sure she knows where I’ve been, and who I’ve been with. She’s tolerated my dalliances, as she calls them, with Spencer for years and mostly looked the other way.
But no more. Now she has a responsibility. To deliver to Earl Wainwright the perfect, little virgin bride.
An evil smile curls my lips.
Whoops.
Looks like I ruined that part of her plan.
