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For a moment, everything remains the same until he takes his restraints off. He falls forward, his hands finding purchase on the bed as he drives me into the mattress. His never-ending strokes intensify everything.
“You feel so fucking good. I want to hear you scream my name. I want your pussy to clench around me. Fuck, Kenna. You’re so beautiful.” His words are punctuated with every movement of his hips.
My core is an inferno of pleasure, and eruption is imminent.
He traces his fingers down my scar, looking at me so adoringly that something inside my body clicks into place. My pussy clenches, spasming against him.
He focuses on me, and my stomach flips. A pained expression twists his face until he buries himself inside me with one last stroke, his dick pulsing as he holds himself there. The tendons in his neck strain. He gasps for a breath, and the last of his tension empties.
Lying on his elbows, he meets me face-to-face. Neither of us say a word. We just stare. I breathe in the heady scent around us, using my other senses to soak all this up.
What West and I have is intense and real and scary. And a part of me would wilt if I had to give this up.
CHAPTERTWENTY-FIVE
West
My eyes dartopen at the crashing sound breaking through my sleeping subconscious. I sit up in bed, only to find Sydney staring at me open-mouthed. I yank the sheets around my waist as she peers up at the ceiling. “I, um…oh.”
Kenna stirs next to me, and I make sure she’s covered, too. Her plump lips that I kissed raw last night press together and release.
“Wasn’t expecting that.” Sydney chuckles half-heartedly, dribbling her fingers against her thighs.
Kenna jolts to a sitting position now, too, yanking the covers around her front. “Oh, hey. Yeah, sorry. He showed up after you went to bed.”
Sydney peeks at me briefly, then back at the ceiling again. “I don’t usually barge into Kenna’s room. You can ask her later, but… Have you, uh, seen the news?”
My stomach sinks. Not again. Notmore. I came over here last night for a reprieve. I wanted to feel like everything was okay, and when we were enjoying each other, nothing could’ve been wrong. I swear the house could’ve been burning down around us and I wouldn’t have cared.
The morning sun and Sydney’s concerned features make for a grim dose of reality.
“What is it?” Kenna asks, gripping the sheets tighter.
“You know, why don’t you guys get dressed? Because this is really freaking awkward. Then we’ll talk.” Sydney doesn’t leave time for us to argue. She backs away and shuts the door. On the other side, I hear a huge release of breath.
I can’t take much more. I swing my feet to the floor and search my scattered belongings for my phone with a sick stomach. The Hamilton players were recording last night, and I swear if they brought Kenna into this, I’m going to—
My phone falls out of my shorts pocket and slides a little away from me. I pull it toward me with my fingertips, and the mattress behind me dips. Kenna kisses my shoulder as I turn my screen on. Immediately, the air in the room tenses. I have dozens of school app messages, texts, social media messages. I’m even tagged in various social media posts. Maybe I shouldn’t have turned the sound off on my phone last night.
Panic starts to claw at me.
This nightmare will never end.
Kenna scoots next to me, lying her head on my bicep. Part of me wants to throw my phone away and forget about it all. Hide in her room all day, pretend the outside world doesn’t exist.
But that wouldn’t do anything. Football has always been my dream and escape, and it kills me that my father is taking something I love and turning it sour.
I decide to start with the texts first. I click on the screen to find familiar names highlighted. My mom. Coach. Aidan. A few teammates. When I swipe those away, I realize I actually have a few phone calls, too. I prioritize those. Calls are worse than texts, right? If someone calls nowadays, it’s a big deal. The first one, I almost don’t click on because I don’t recognize the number.
I switch hands, bringing my phone up to my ear on the side away from Kenna, and my heart drops. It’s Sunny from the dealership that gave me the truck. He wants to talk. He doesn’t say as much, but his tone is dire.
My mouth goes dry.
“What is it?” Kenna whispers as I take the phone away from my ear.
“Not good,” I tell her. “That was the dealership. They want to talk.”
Her fingertips press into my skin. They have a grounding effect that I’m thankful for when I go to the next voicemail. It’s from Coach. “Son, we need to talk ASAP. Call me and we’ll meet at the school or my house. Your choice.”