Page 9 of The Tenth Circle

“Even if you promise I won’t regret it. Okay?!” The words go from curt to erratic, needing him to stop before I change my mind.

When my jeans and underwear pass my hips I know I’m ruined. Either he’s gonna love what he finds or hate what he finds.

Either way it’ll hurt.

Hands squeeze my thighs, making me wiggle again.

But he says nothing.

So I say nothing.

Cellulite and all can be felt in this guy’s hands, which wouldn’t usually slight my confidence, but he just froze in place and that’s alarming.

You know…unlike getting fingered by a stranger in a glorified closet.

Still. Idealists are not cruel.

Therefore they do not deserve to be rejected by psychopaths.

“Please stop…” Discouragement oozes through each syllable, until warm breath hovers close to my vagina, followed by the sound of a long drawn inhale.

Then a moan.

“What are you…?” Once again my words are silenced, but this time by the tip of his tongue along my flesh, careful and precise as if wanting to savor the taste. It takes everything in me not to find the strands of his hair and pull him into me for more.

Tingles shoot all the way down to my toes, and when he repeats the process they zoom right back up to where we’re connected.

“Please…” This time when I beg, it has nothing to do with stopping, and boy does he know it because I can feel his smile against my skin.

Still, Crazyman says nothing.

All of a sudden, there’s space between us, and I hold back the urge to stomp my feet in protest.

“Ask me,” he repeats the demand for the umpteenth time, distancing himself until I can no longer feel his warmth or towering presence.

“Seriously? This again?!” I yell into the dark, pulling up my jeans and fastening them at lightning speed.

“Ask me.” The words come from my left and make me jump.

They’re colder, louder, meaner—a telltale sign theotherhim is back and approaching fast.

Whatever, Crazyman. You win.

But you both better take this shit home right after.

“Fucking fine. Are you a sinner?”

The mood has already shifted by the time he reaches me, the heat of his body absorbing every bit of cold as he leans down to say, “Of course not, I’m a saint.”

1

HENDRIX

SEPTEMBER

It’s only fourth period and I already hate it here.

The first day of school always sucks for the new kids, but after what went down during orientation I feel like I’m walking through a field of landmines, trying not to blow my head off.