If that isn’t the best sound I’ve heard. I could live for those screams, tinged with pain and pleasure. A combination.
I release her thighs to slip my hand between us. I pinch her clit, twisting it and tugging. I play with her harder than I’ve ever fucked a girl before, and I still feel deranged. Like this is only the tip of the iceberg.
Her nails rake down my back, and I shudder when she grips my hair and forces my head up. We lock eyes. I see everything she wants me to see and more. How every stroke deep inside her is hitting a special place that makes her eyelids flutter. How the pressure is something new, something twisted.
I ease up on her clit and rub fast, shallow circles. My balls tighten, and I pound into her faster. Harder. She lets her head fall back when I pinch her clit again, and her cunt clenches around me as she comes.
Her mouth opens and closes, but she doesn’t give me that scream. She doesn’t say my fucking name, but she shakes and trembles and grips my biceps so tight, I think I’ll have half-moon cuts in my skin when we’re done.
Sweat rolls down my back. Between her breasts. We’re both panting.
I bury myself inside her and go still, ecstasy sweeping down my cock and exploding inside her. I grip her to me as I come, knowing full well that there’s no barrier between us. I didn’t give her a choice—and she’s not going to get one.
There’s no going back.
14
VIOLET
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.”