His lips detached from mine, and he snatched my wrist to stop me. He leaned into my ear once more, his breath tickling my sensitive skin. “I want my other hand first.”
I hesitated for a brief second before I relaxed my thighs and relieved the pressure from his hand. I went back to searching for his zipper, but then Lo pushed his fingers faster and harder inside of me.
My eyes fluttered, my back arched, and the cry I had been avoiding came out like I had reached the pinnacle of all pinnacles.
Tricky bastard.
I thought that was it, but he kept his fingers in place, and my whole body skyrocketed again. And again. I leaned forward from the sudden waves, and clutched his hard bicep and cotton shirt, his arm still pressed strongly against my chest, gliding down below, disappearing between my legs. Just thinking about the way he was inside of me sent me spiraling.
He slid his free hand over my mouth, blocking out the noises that persisted and rocked through me. One after the other. My body shuddered and wouldn’t let up. Not when he would shift a little, touching a place that put me into a new tailspin.
Any fear of an onlooker was drowned by the ecstasy that filled my head. Clinging to him in desperation. In vital, palpable need.
I no longer craved for something more. He was enough.
“Lily!” Yes.
“LILY!” The door bangs with an angry sound. No.
My eyes snap open back to the present moment. The house party. I’m in the bathroom, my forehead sweaty. My eyes had been halfway rolled in the back of my head, almost about to climax with the memory.
I have yet to hit my sweet spot. The tension burns, but Ryke’s voice scares me enough to jump off the toilet like it zapped me. I hurry and dress. “Coming!” I tell him and cringe almost immediately. Really? I couldn’t choose any other word?
“I hope not,” Ryke says, his voice so close that I picture him leaning a shoulder against the door frame.
My cheeks welt in an ugly red. I wash my hands with plenty of soap and peek at the mirror. Besides my flushed face, I look presentable. So far, I’ve been trying to eliminate porn from my life, not fantasies. I shouldn’t be ashamed, but my stomach knots anyway.
That memory I focused on, I love. Because I later found out that Lo had paid the manager for a private screening of the movie, buying each and every ticket that would have filled the theater. He planned to arouse me. He planned to satiate my needs in a new way. Maybe Rose would call that enabling, but right now, it’s one of the sweeter memories in my spank bank.
As soon as I open the door, a girl with jet-black hair mumbles, “bitch,” and barrels ahead, shoving me into the nearby wall. Okay, that was not necessary. She slams the door, and then I glance up to see the aggravated, curving line of guys and girls—hands on their hips, eyes in tight glares.
My rash-like flush burgeons across my arms. Hopefully they believe I was puking up the punch, not fingering myself.
And when I turn slightly, I find Ryke, leaning on the wall just as I pictured. His arms are crossed and he scrutinizes me with hard, piercing eyes. His brown hair is styled nicely, giving these models a run for their money. He’s also slightly unshaven, which makes him appear older and tougher. He gives me a long once-over, as if trying to spot the stain of debauchery.
I ignore him and head towards the living room, knowing he’ll follow. I’m not surprised when I feel his presence like an annoying, unwanted shadow. When I reach the kitchen, he puts his hand on my shoulder, spinning me around to meet his accusatory eyes, as though I’ve already fucked up.
Maybe I have. I don’t know anything anymore. I wish someone could give me a guide on what exactly I’m supposed to do, but no one seems to know. My addiction isn’t fucking normal. That’s the problem.
“You look like shit,” he starts off.
“Thank you,” I say dryly. “If that’s what you scurried all across the city for, then mission accomplished. You can leave me alone now.”
“Why do you do that?” he snaps.
“Do what?” I do a lot of things. As does he.
“Act like I’m a fucking rat, scurrying.”
I shrug my shoulders. “I don’t know. Maybe because you lied to me for months.” He could have told me he was Lo’s brother. I feel just as duped as my boyfriend, but the difference is I don’t let things go as easily. Not when Ryke is a rash I can’t medicate.
He rolls his eyes and says, “Get over it.”
I hate him. “Okay.” I flash an irritated half-smile. “I’m over it.” I try to pass him to go find my sister.