Revenge at Raleigh High
Page 36
My voice is a faint whisper when I reply, “Yes.”
“Try to relax.” He fills me up, stretches me, makes me whole. He starts off slow, gentler than I think he would have done if he hadn’t just deflowered me. After a while the pain subsides, gradually transforms until I’m no longer tensing with every thrust, but leaning into it. By the end, he’s fucking me like a freight train—unstoppable and raw with need. He comes so hard, he practically roars.
I don’t, of course. It’s my first time, and the pain just about outweighed the pleasure. My mind is too fogged to understand what’s going on as he climbs off me and slides down my body. His lips caress the inside of my thigh, and I shiver as his fingers carefully stroke over my core. The touch isn’t designed to excite me—it’s more of an apology. He moves around in the dark, undoing my wrists, my ankles.
“You enjoy that?” he rumbles, and the depths of his voice make my legs press together.
“Yeah, I—I did.” The most startling thing, the thing that makes me most sick, is that I’m telling the truth. What the hell is wrong with me?
He grunts, unthreading his belt from around my neck. The release of pressure makes me feel like I’m floating two feet off the bed.
I’m immobile as he packs up his things. I can sense him next to me pulling on his clothes. Then, when he’s dressed, he stands beside the bed looking down on me. He brushes his fingertips against my cheek again, so soft it’s almost not a touch at all.
“Be seeing you.” He heads for the door, and the light from the hallway nearly splits my skull apart when he opens it. And there my mystery man pauses, and I catch the one and only glimpse of him I ever get. Wearing a worn leather jacket, his back to me, a black duffel bag in his right hand, he tips his head down to his shoulder. He’s doesn’t look back at me. He hovers there long enough for me to make out the silhouette of his profile, his dark, mussed hair, the bruised pout to his full lips.
And then he goes.
I never find out his name.
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USA Today Bestselling Author, Callie Hart, was born in England, but has lived all over the world. As such, she has a weird accent that generally confuses people. She currently resides in Los Angeles, California, where she can usually be found hiking, practicing yoga, kicking ass at Cards Against Humanity, or watching re-runs of Game of Thrones.
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