by Cora Carmack
Either way, I’m beginning to learn that I don’t want to be a pretty little anything.
What I do want to be . . . I don’t know. But I know that it needs to be something I want. Not what I think other people want me to be.
He tugs a little harder on my hair, pulling me back from my thoughts, and I gasp into his mouth. I bite down on his bottom lip in response, not because I’ve ever done anything like that, but because it seems like the thing to do. He groans, sliding a hand down my backside. So, I guess that means it was okay. He squeezes, lifts me forward and against him so that I can feel his hard length press right against the juncture of my thighs.
To quote Matt—Holy shit.
He keeps kissing me, his tongue sweeping past mine again and again, and it feels like a race to the finish line. Like if I can touch him enough, taste him enough, I’ll reach a point where I’m so saturated by him that . . . that something. I don’t even know what will happen then, but I know I want it. I dig my nails into his shoulders, and he groans into my mouth in response.
One of his hand slips down the waistband of my shorts, under the band of my underwear, and his fingers grip the curve of my behind. It’s so mind-numbingly erotic that I lose pace on our kiss, overwhelmed just trying to catalog all that I’m feeling.
I pull back, struggling to breathe.
“That was more than just a kiss.”
He shrugs, his smile downright devilish.
“Just another difference in definition.”
His lips drift back toward mine, but I place a hand on his chest to stop him.
“Time for another question.”
“Go ahead,” he says, but he doesn’t shift his grip on my ass; instead he tightens it and turns his attention to my neck. His teeth skate along my skin first, raising goose bumps in their wake. Then I feel the heat of his open mouth, the flick of his tongue, his hum of pleasure.
“When we, ah, um . . .”
Words. Letters together in patterns. Focus on the words, Dylan.
“Is there anything between you and Stella?”
His teeth nip at my collarbone and I jolt on his lap. He drops his head into the hollow of my neck and groans. His panting breath is hot against my skin. He uses the hand on my backside to mimic the surprised movement I’d just made, his hips rocking with mine this time, and he groans again, deep and low.
“Didn’t you already ask me that question?”
“I asked if she was your ex, not the same thing as asking if there’s anything between you at all.”
He circles my hips over his, and oh God it feels so good, better than such a simple motion should. But between his erection and both our zippers, the friction is killing me.
“We hooked up once last year, but we’re just friends.”
I know that answer should make me pause, should make me ask more questions, but his mouth has left my neck to explore my shoulder, and his free hand has found its way beneath my top, beneath the spaghetti strap shirt I’m wearing in lieu of a bra. He makes a noise of approval low in his throat when he discovers that fact, and his thumb draws circles around my nipple, teasing me with an almost touch for a few seconds before squeezing the tip between his thumb and forefinger.
I throw my head back, feeling relaxed and tense all at the same time. I want more, so much more, but I’m afraid to ask, so I bite my lip, arch my body, and grind against him, hoping that he can read what I want in my actions.
More. More please.
His lips return to mine, and all of a sudden, I have one of those weird out-of-body experiences where I’m not sure if this is even real. Being dumped by Henry. Getting arrested. Going to a party with a total stranger. Following my impulses without any concern for the consequences. This is not my life. This is not me.
The way his kiss feels . . . it’s too good. The way kissing feels in a dream, like the complete sum of everything I want and need, and he’s risen from my subconscious to give me the perfect fantasy. His touch is electric in a way that has to be my imagination because skin doesn’t react like that, doesn’t spark and heat and burn that hot. He has to be my subconscious reacting to the mess with Henry because he’s the complete opposite of the guy I’d spent the last four years of my life with.
Henry was a plan, a future, 2.5 kids, and a backyard. Henry is everything I should want.
Silas is this moment only. A quick burst of adrenaline. The physical manifestation of want with no regard to logic or reason.
Silas is . . .
Oh God. Silas is touching me. Really touching me. My shorts are unzipped, and his hand is inside my panties, and one finger slides against my sensitive flesh.
Shit. Not out of my body anymore. I am firmly in my skin, and burning up.
“What happened to my bossy girl?” Silas says, and I don’t think I can even form words to respond.
I just knot my hands behind his neck because I don’t trust myself to hold on to his shoulders anymore for balance.
“No more questions?” he teases. “I thought you never run out of questions.”
Oh, I had questions, but I no longer cared about the answers. I no longer cared about anything except what his hands were going to do next.
“I have a question for you then.”
Just the tip of his finger dips inside me, and the heel of his hand is so close to where I’m dying for his touch.
“Do you want my fingers inside you?”
I swallow, wishing for another one of those out-of-body experiences. Because now I know this is real. It’s too intense to be anything else, and I know he’s going to make me answer. And I’m not sure if I like this kind of thing. It scares me how much I want to answer him anyway, how much I need him to keep going.
The heel of his hand grinds against my center just for a moment, and when he pulls back I cry out at the loss.
“Do you want me inside you?”
I squeeze my eyes shut and whisper, “Y-Yes.”
His cheek slides against mine, and I shiver at the scrape of his stubble. His voice is a rumble in my ear. “One or two?”
“W-What?”
He slides one finger in, only to pull it all the way out. His teeth graze my earlobe and he asks again, “One or two?”
Please don’t make me. I can’t—
He pushes two inside, and it’s just enough to ease the ache and simultaneously multiply it. It’s just enough in every way. “Two,” I answer before he can take them away again. “I want two.”
His palm presses up into me as a reward, and I move against it, seeking more friction.
“Fuck, yes,” he growls, stealing my lips for a quick, hard kiss.
“Take what you want, Dylan. Ride my hand.”
I whimper, and I don’t know if it’s in objection to his words or because they make something tighten in my belly.
“Come on. Move for me.”
I kiss him. Maybe to shut him up. Maybe for courage.
As soon as his tongue slides against mine, I’m reacting on instinct, doing exactly as he asked. His other hand is out of my shirt, and digging into my braid, undoing it until hair starts to fall around my face and swing around me as I rock into his palm.
“God, yes. You’re gorgeous like this. Keep going, baby.”
Every time I tilt my hips, he pushes in sync, curling his fingers and hitting a spot that makes my arms and legs shake in anticipation. He pushes up my oversized shirt and his lips close over the tip of my breast through my camisole. He sucks hard, and my hips jerk, seeking more. I throw my head back because I’m so close.
So, so close.
He lets my shirt drop down and clamps his hand around the back of my neck. His grip is hard enough that it almost hurts. Almost. Instead it just adds to the frenzied pace of my blood rushing beneath my skin. With his hand at my nape, I have no choice but to look at him. His hair is mussed and wild, and I wonder when I ran my hands through it because I don’t remember. I sink my fingers through the strands now, though, because that’s som
ething I want to remember, how it feels to hold on to him like that.
His hazel eyes are so dark and piercing, and that look alone brings me a breath closer to the edge. He pulls me into him, so that his hand is wedged between us with no extra space. I’m still moving against his palm, but when I rock hard enough, I’m pushing against his erection, too. I know when I’ve done that because I can feel his heavy exhale against my lips.
“I’m going to watch you, Dylan. Just like this. I’m going to watch you come apart around my fingers, and it might just be the hottest fucking thing I’ve ever seen.”
My eyelids start to fall under the pleasure, and he twists his fingers inside me. I pull his hair on accident, and he growls in approval.
“Look at me, Dylan. Don’t close your eyes. I want to see it. I want to watch you come for me. Can you give me that?”
“Si-Silas.”
His grin is so wicked, so gorgeous. I just stare at him. I could stare at him all day.
“Feel free to say that while you come, too.”
And that’s it for me. I feel it building the second before it hits, like I can almost see the shadow of a wave cresting just behind me, and then it crashes over my head and I am . . .
drowning and
dying and
breathing and
perfect . . .
Everything is absolutely perfect.
Silas’s lips touch mine, surprisingly soft, and I sink into him, boneless and exhausted and too undone to be embarrassed. My skin is buzzing, and my hearing is off, like I’m underwater. I can feel the delay between my thoughts and my movements, like my body short-circuited and is still trying to reboot.
“I was right,” he breathes against my lips. “Hottest fucking thing I’ve ever seen.”
He kisses me again, and that’s when I realize . . . this isn’t over. I’ve just had an incredibly intimate, incredibly vulnerable encounter with a relative stranger, in a bathroom, of all places, and though I had a (rather wonderful) moment, he didn’t. And this was all just prelude.
Which is terrifying because that prelude was the scariest and most erotic moment of my life, and I might not survive more. And though I definitely wanted what just happened, my brain is still too fuzzy and disjointed for me to figure out what else I want.
He slides his hand out from under me, and I realize that we’re both still fully clothed. Other than my soaked panties and unbuttoned shorts, you can’t tell we’ve been doing anything more than kissing.
There’s something even sexier about that, but at the same time, it wakes me up to a twisting sensation in my gut, something I recognize all too easily as guilt.
It’s not like I’m against sex or anything.
But like this? When it’s this . . . impersonal? I have no clue what I’m doing. It’s as if I woke up today and completely forgot who I was, who I’ve spent my whole life becoming. And I don’t know whether to be angry at myself for that or for feeling guilty about doing what I want. What feels right.
When is it okay for want to overpower common sense? And how do I know if this is just some phase, some rebellion? Or if it’s me finally waking up, letting go of expectations and responsibilities and rules?
How do I know what to trust—what I feel or what I think?
I’m scared that whatever I decide, I’ll end up regretting it.
I’m still straddling Silas when I ask, “You said you and Stella hooked up last year. That’s what this is . . . right?”
He kisses me on the shoulder and helps me stand. “My room is right across the hall. Let’s go over there.”
He pulls open the door, but I plant my feet.
“This is just a hookup.”
I don’t phrase it like a question, but from the wary look he shoots me, we both know it is.
“What do you want it to be?”
I frown. “I’m not sure.” I’m not really the one-night-stand kind of person, but I also can’t picture myself having a relationship with Silas. I like him and the way he makes me feel, but that’s not near enough to build a relationship on.
A holding cell meet-up and a few hot minutes in the bathroom is not exactly how I pictured my next romantic encounter.
“Can’t we just leave it at that? Figure it out later?”
“No. I can’t.”
He leaves the door to cross over to me. He scoops my thick hair up and pulls it over one shoulder. Then he trails a finger down my cheek, and I’m relieved to note it’s not the hand he recently had buried in my shorts.
“I think you’re great, Dylan.” He doesn’t use any stupid nicknames. I guess that’s another perk of the activity we’ve just done. “I like you. I like making you come. That’s all I know right now.”
I will not blush. I will not blush. I will not—
Damn that cocky smile.
I wish that were enough. I wish I could be fine with just worrying about right now.
“I don’t ask questions to be a pain, Silas. I ask questions because I’m the kind of person who needs answers. I just am.”
“What answer do you want? A relationship? Because that’s not really something I do.”
I don’t think that’s what I want. But I don’t like that it’s not even a consideration.
“How do you know? Do you have trust issues? Or you get bored easily? Or you’ve just never tried?”
He drops his hand away from my face.
“Dylan, I’m not sure what I want from you, but it isn’t to be my shrink.”
“I’m not trying to be your shrink. I’m just trying to get us on the same page.”
“We were on the same page when you were straddling me. Let’s go back to that.”
“Silas.” I know even as I say it that I sound like I’m reprimanding him. Like I’m already some angry girlfriend. And it’s ridiculous because I’m actually tempted. God, as frustrated and wary as I feel, I’m so tempted.
“Okay. Here are the answers I have for you, Dylan. Yes, I like you . . . enough to bail you out of jail when I knew next to nothing about you. Maybe it’s just a hookup. Maybe we’ll see each other again. I don’t know. I don’t make promises because I’m not good at keeping them. You’re either okay with that or you’re not. And if you’re not, that’s whatever . . . fine. But I can’t guarantee you anything. And if you’re thinking of me as some project you can fix or change . . . don’t. That’s what I know.”
“Thank you. That, um . . . that helps.” And makes me feel a little sick to my stomach all at the same time. It’s all well and good to act impulsively, to live in the moment, but I don’t exactly have any experience dealing with what comes after.
“Should I go find Matt and take you two home?”
“No.” I shake my head, my lips pursed tightly together. His eyebrows arch, and he curls a hand around the back of my neck. His mouth dips down close to mine, but I sidestep him and move toward the door. “I don’t need you to take me home. But I think it’s probably not a good idea for me to go into your bedroom. I’m in a weird place mentally right now, and I’m not sure I trust my decision making at the moment.”
In fact, I don’t trust myself at all. I haven’t since I went out with Henry thinking he might be about to propose and got a breakup instead. Because . . . I think, I can’t be sure, but I think when he ended it . . . I was relieved. And only minutes before I’d been prepared with the word yes on the tip of my tongue.
And that scares the holy hell out of me because I should know myself better than that . . . right? I should know who I am and what I think and how I feel . . . but I don’t.
I don’t know myself at all.
He swallows, and he must be gritting his teeth because his jaw is tight. He looks down at his feet and bobs his head in a nod. “I get it.”
He looks up and asks, “You sure you don’t need a ride home? It’s not a big deal.” But even though he’s looking at me, he’s not looking at me. His eyes are unfocused and just off to the side, and his expression is locked up tight.
And I feel so guilty, not just for what I did, but because this isn’t fair to him. He’s the collateral damage of my own indecision.
“Thanks. That’s really nice, but we can walk. It’s not far.”
“Okay.”
“Okay,” I reply. I stand there stupidly for a few more seconds and then walk out the door.
I turn to say one last thing, and he’s right behind me. He’s looking at me now, and I can’t read his expression.
“Sorry.” I mean it to be an apology for all of it, but I’m scared he thinks it’s just about nearly bumping into him, so I continue, “I’m sorry for being weird about all this. And thank you. For everything, not for . . .” I gesture in the general direction of where he gave me an orgasm. “That. But thanks for that also. Oh God. I’m going to go. Sorry. Thanks.”
STOP SAYING THANK YOU.
I can feel his presence behind me as I flee, and I’m wondering whether it’s worse to stay silent or to make some horrible, awkward small talk on our way down the stairs. Then I hear the door across the hall, his bedroom, click shut.
And I’m alone.
And I still have no idea what I want.
Chapter 8
Silas
I find a joint in my room, and kill the whole thing in a few minutes.
Bad decision.
She didn’t say it, but that’s what she was thinking. She wanted to avoid bad decisions, and always, no matter what I do, no matter how far away I get from the trailer park and that shack of Granny’s, I’ve got that written all over me.
The high comes on fast and hard, and I spend the next half hour, maybe more, staring at my ceiling. I’m fucking blank, barely even there. And it’s perfect.
But when I start to level out, it all gets worse.
I’m horny as hell, and the weed only amplifies it.
Instead of clearing my head and relaxing me like normal, my thoughts turn dark, and I get stuck thinking about the past. I start thinking that there’s no point. To football or classes or friendship or anything. I know where I came from, and I know where I’m gonna end up, and the longer I lie here, baked out of my mind, the more it starts to feel like those two things aren’t as far apart or as different as I want them to be.