Page 37

I haven’t forgotten his threat of blackballing me. If my communications class is any indication, the message is out.

“You’re not stupid,” he says, giving me a hard look. “He’s a massive dick, T. Just an absolute piece of shit. You’re better than him.”

“Am I?” I ask, without thinking. “Because the no fuck-ups plan feels lonely. Confusing. Embarrassing that I want to be wanted, even if it comes with a bunch of strings.” I tilt my head and look at him. “But that’s not the worst part.”

“What’s the worst part?”

“That if he’d talked to me tonight, and asked me to go back home with him, I’m afraid I would have said, yes.”

Axel shifts, turning to me. The neon sign behind his head filters through his hair, casting it in a pinkish glow. I fight the urge to squirm under the intensity of his gaze. He touches my chin and forces me to look at him. “I get it. I’m lonely too. I don’t trust myself to take an inch or I’ll go a mile, and screw it all up again. Kissing you in there got me harder than steel.” His tongue darts out and those bottle green eyes drop to my mouth before popping up again. “It’s the only time I’ve felt right all week.”

We stare at one another, his thumb sweeping under my jaw, giving me time to make the decision on my own. My body reacts to the simple touch, a sign of how deprived I feel. This is whenI should walk. Stick with the plan. Deny how he makes me feel, but instead my lips part for him; opening in invitation.

He reacts instantly, but this time when his mouth meets mine, it’s slow and sweet, without the fuel of doing it for someone else. It’s between us and I don’t fight him when he lifts me up, dragging me onto his lap.

Straddling him, his hands smooth down my skirt to keep my ass covered, but holding me tight, making sure our bodies are flush. Fuck, he isn’t kidding about being hard. It’s painful, but the good kind, and I grind down against him wanting to feel him through the thin cotton of my panties.

He groans, breath hot against my mouth.

“This is a bad idea,” I say, unconvincingly, resting my hand on his shoulder.

“Is it?” He pushes the hair off my neck, laying a wet kiss against my throat. “Because it feels pretty damn right to me.”

We writhe against one another, fully clothed, our hot breath clouding in the cold air. Axel’s hands push under my shirt, fingers searching, only stopping when they meet lace.

“Your tits are perfect, you know that?” He pulls the lace aside, the pad of his fingers circling my nipple.

“Yeah, well, so is your body.” I lift his shirt, getting a peek of his abs. “It’s ridiculous.”

He grins, tweaking my nipple, and I cry out, the jolt from my nipples to my pussy electrifying.

The weeks of celibacy build into something frantic, the need to be felt, to be touched, bigger than anything else. Axel kisses me again, taking my breath from me as I start to pant. The friction between my legs, his hands on my tits, his tongue–

“Oh fuck,” he growls, thrusting into me. The seam of his jeans rubs deliciously on my clit and when he presses down on my nipples, the world turns upside down and explodes.

“Holy shit,” I breathe, collapsing into him. His hands are still clenched around my hips, dragging me against him, until he groans so deep it rattles in his chest.

“Jesus,” he exhales. “I just came in my pants. I haven’t done that since I was fourteen.”

We breathe together for a long moment, my heart and pussy throbbing like hummingbird wings. The sound of voices snap me back to reality and I pull back. “Oh God, I’m–”

“Don’t you fucking dare apologize, you hear me?” His big hand slides behind my neck, pulling my forehead to his. “Don’t feel guilty, or slutty or anything else. That was you and me in a safe space, got it?”

I nod, but I can’t help thinking we may have just had our biggest fuck-up yet.

GoalieGod:I think I got denim burn on my dick.

My eyes roll everytime Axel’s screen name pops up on my phone, but this time my skin also gets hot.

GoalieGod: How’s your pussy? Need some aftercare?

My pussy is… fine, a little sore, but overall pleased with getting some much needed relief last night. Although the idea of Axel checking up on me, gives me tingles all over my–

“Order for Bertha!”

The barista shouts out Twyler’s name–well her cat’s name–some weird inside joke between her and Reese. I shove my phone into my pocket and ignore the texts. Two girls are in line behind my roommate–sorority girls according to the letters on their crewnecks. One flicks a stare at me for a long moment, before rolling her eyes and leaning into her friend to whisper.

I’d try not to be paranoid, but there’s no doubt these girls have heard the news: Nadia Beckwith is blacklisted.