by L V Chase
I brush my cheek against his cock. He steps back, grabbing me by the waist and lifting me back up onto the bed. He roughly yanks my underwear down as I try to adjust myself. He climbs over me, the weight of him and the heat of his erection sending a more urgent ache straight between my legs.
We kiss, but it’s hard to stop a hurtling train. My thighs spread wider as he settles between my legs. He unhooks my bra and pulls it off. He looks down at me. His eyes are soft around the edges, and his jaw has lost all its tension. It’s the kind of look I’d noticed once in a couple on the street—the woman had been singing while the man played a guitar besides her. The way they looked at each other was intimate, delicate, and visceral. I didn’t think I’d ever know what it would feel like to be looked at that way. It’s returning home after being homesick for my whole life.
His cock trails at my entrance. I reach down, grasping the girth of it. I guide him inside me. He pulls my hand away, moving his hand inside of mine as he pushes farther inside of me. I hold my breath as I take him in.
When he’s fully inside, he gazes down at me. His eyes are just as much varied shades of blue as the rest of the room, but their vibrancy is more alive. And when he rotates his hips, sending electrical shocks through me, the aurora borealis unfurls in my blood.
Tonight, everything is iridescent.
His lips trace my collarbone. I move my hands over his shoulder blades and up to his neck. I slide my fingers in his hair. Sweat glides between us. The sound of our breathing overlaps. We’re Icarus, soaring closer and closer to the sun, but we know that melting will be as good as flying.
Or better.
When Grayson starts to fuck me harder, he pins down my wrists. I close my eyes, and he presses his forehead against mine, his sweat clinging to my skin. His breath rolls across my cheeks. The urgent, primal ache swells in me. I try to hold back. I try to think of something else. But all I know is friction and that I stupidly love the megalomaniac above me.
He releases my wrists. He braces his weight on one elbow while his other hand clasps my breast. His thumb brushes against the nipple. When his mouth covers it with his tongue rolling around it, my back arches. He’s fucking me up. I know nobody else will ever be able to do this to me. It’s cruel at this point.
He kisses my mouth, his hand sliding down to grab my ass, squeezing it harshly. The pressure inside me builds, too damn close to my breaking point. This moment is too good to want it to end, but I can’t stop myself from wanting it.
I’m gripping onto his hair when it hits me. It’s a supernova—a radiant burst with shock waves vibrating out so powerful it creates new stars in every inch of my body. It swells inside me, bringing me to the brink of everything stunning and refusing to bring me back until I’m wrung out.
As my body’s contracting around him, Grayson becomes still over me, his eyes closed and his hands cradling under my head. His breath hits my wet lips as he comes inside me. The sight of him nearly sends me over the edge again.
He kisses my breathless mouth. He slides out of me, collapsing down beside me.
“I still have my stockings on,” I mumble.
He laughs.
“Oh, right,” he says. “Should I take them off, and we try again in a half-hour?”
“A half-hour?” I ask. “I would think that Voss men recharge faster than that.”
His hand slides between my legs. My body buzzes from his touch. His thumb circles around my clit. I squirm against him. He pulls away.
“Come on,” I whine. “You just like to have power over me.”
He rolls onto his side, his mouth close to my ear.
“Isn’t that why you had your mouth on me?” he whispers, his eyes crinkling as he’s smiling. “The difference is that you knew who I was when you met me.”
“I actually didn’t,” I say.
He runs his fingers over my inner thigh. I snatch his wrist, although I’d do dangerous things to keep his hand stroking my skin.
“Don’t make promises that you can’t keep,” I whisper.
He leans over me, kissing me. His hand moves back between my legs, sparking a fire that could burn down this whole city.
16
Grayson
I turn over under the sheets, the sluggish wave of sleep trying to pull me back under. Something soft and warm presses against my bare chest.
Cin.
I can't help but smile as I remember last night. I reach over to wrap an arm around Cin and breath in her scent. She snores softly. I hug her gently as I draw closer, my eyes growing drowsy.
Something buzzes loudly, the rattle of metal vibrating against a hard surface. Shit, my phone.
I let go of Cin and roll over quickly to reach for my phone on the nightstand to the side. The light from the bathroom's left on, but it still takes me a second to find my phone. I'm half asleep, too, or I wouldn't have answered the call without checking who was calling first.
"Hello?" I say into the phone. I immediately regret answering when I hear the voice.
"Grayson!" Dad screams.
I pull the phone away from my ear and lower the volume. I'm wide awake now. I glance back at Cin, but she's still snoring. I get off the bed and walk to the corner of the room. Dad's yelling, but I can barely understand what he's going on about.
I already have a good idea of what this is about. This has to be about that fucker, Damian.
"He published the testimonies?" I ask when Dad pauses with his ranting to take a breath.
"What do you think, you stupid, good-for-nothing piece of shit—"
"You're the one that couldn't keep Writing on the Wall in check," I hiss. "You had months to cut them off when they were getting started. This is on you as much as anything I did."
I don't even mention that his fucking projects are the reason for this shit in the first place. If he had kept his hands clean, none of this would have happened. Dad explodes with another flurry of curses and useless shit. Cin's stirring now, though, so I just hang up and turn off the phone's ringer.
The sheets fall away from Cin as she sits up, revealing her topless body.
"Is something wrong?" Cin asks.
I stare at the curves of Cin's breasts, then glance back up into Cin's sleepy eyes. "No, everything looks fine from where I am."
Cin glances down at herself, then shakes her head as she pulls the sheet higher to cover herself. "You know that's not what I meant," she says, but she's smiling slightly. "Were you on the phone? I thought I heard you talking—"
"It's fine. Nothing to worry about."
Cin frowns. "So, there is something."
Shit. She's not as sleepy as she looks. She's going to find out eventually what happened, and when she does, she'll probably end up feeling guilty about it, blaming herself somehow.
"Please, Cin. Just enjoy what we have right now." I move over to her and lean over for kiss. She lifts her head to meet my mouth but breaks off the kiss quickly.
"I should get going," Cin says as she climbs out of the bed and begins getting dressed. Her elf costume is on the floor, but she was smart enough to bring a spare shirt and pair of jeans.
"Yeah, probably." I slip into my pants. "You go first. I'll leave in half an hour."
I'm not sure it even matters anymore, with Damian releasing the testimonies. But I don't want to give Dad or anyone else more reason to go after Cin.
Cin meets my gaze. "Yeah." She doesn't look disappointed. Resigned, maybe. "I know."
I take her face in my eyes. "Cin."
"No, I get it. It's safer like this." She gives me a quick peck on the mouth. "I have to get going."
She finishes dressing, grabs her things, and is gone.
By the time I check out of the hotel, all signs of last night's dance are gone. It's quiet and nearly empty, other than a few hotel staff nodding to me as I walk past. If anyone else from school stayed overnight here, I count myself lucky that I don't have to run into them.
I’ve taken three steps outside, on
my way to the small valet station, when a wide shadow falls across me. I look to my left to see a bulky frame reach for me.
"Well, well," Brady says, his fat face curled into a sneer. "Grayson Voss. Just who I was looking for."
The fuck is he doing here? I knock away his meaty palm before he can grab my arm. "What do you want, Brady?"
He and I haven't talked since that first time we met in Dad's office. He's shaved his mustache and beard, but it's easy enough to recognize his big nose and swollen lips. Without his facial hair, he looks even more like a bulldog than before. He's in a bright baby blue shirt and dark blue pants looking like a damn clown.
"You were with her last night, weren't you?" Brady asks as he jabs a finger at me.
"What?" I know who he means. Cin. But I don't get why Brady's here now worried about who the fuck I spend my nights with.
"That girl. Cinnamon Reeves. You two are a thing?" Brady scowls. "Is that what happened?"
He doesn't care about me. It's about her. The bastard is stalking Cin. My hands involuntarily turn into fists. I lean in close enough to smell his bad breath.
"You stay the fuck away from Cin," I hiss.
Brady grabs me by the front of the shirt as he snarls, spittle flying form his mouth. "You ripped me off, you little shit! She was supposed to be mine, not that useless bitch, what's her name, Diana, that you sent. Cinnamon. I wanted Cinnamon! That was the deal!"
I steel my feet against the ground and hit him hard with both of my hands. The fucker is built. It's like hitting a damn bull, but he lets go of me as I knock him backwards several steps.
"Keep your hands off me, and your eyes off Cin."
"You fucker."
Brady lunges at me, but I hold my ground. He stops at the last moment before touching me, glancing to the side. The scattered hotel staff in the area are gawking at us nervously. One of the valets is whispering frantically into his phone.
Brady smooths the sleeves of his shirt. "Thought you Vosses were smarter than that. Better at business."
"Get lost, Brady."
He stares at me silently for a second, then shakes his head. "You should be grateful. You know how annoying it was to handle that mess with Diana? Shit, you still me owe me, and I intend to make you pay."
Brady knows everything. He's working with Damian. I should be careful with him, but I'm done with all the shitheads thinking they can tell me what to do. Or daring to touch Cin. I step forward, ready to break his nose with my forehead, but think better of it at the last moment. I shove him, hard, and he stumbles backwards.
"Fuck off. I don't owe you shit."
I turn away and walk towards the valet stations. The group of three valets are all trying to avoid my eyes when I reach them.
I gesture towards the cluster of keys hanging there. "Get my car? Hello?"
That snaps them into action. They don't need to ask for my name or which car is mine. One of them grabs a key off its hook and dashes away. When I look over my shoulder, Brady's gone.
And that's when I remember what he said. Handle that mess with Diana.
Is he the one that killed Diana? He seems like a real piece of shit, but would he go that far? I could believe it. That sick fuck would probably enjoy it, too.
I can't let him get anywhere near Cin.
17
Cin
After the bus drops me off at the front of campus, I’m surprised to see Eric leaning against the gates. He quickly walks up to me.
“Where’s Grayson?” he asks.
“He’s not back here?” I reply.
“Would I be asking if he was?” Eric pulls out his cigarette carton, pulling one out, and sliding the carton back into his jacket pocket. “Fuck, I’m going to have to start smoking these.”
“What’s going on?” I ask.
He rolls his eyes. “Really? You don’t know? Where have you been all morning?”
I rub my face, hiding the redness rising into my cheeks. “Sleeping, mostly.”
His eyes narrow. “Right. Well, congratulations, you’ve been blessed with not knowing this for the last few hours. You know your old pal, Damian? The piece of shit? Mr. Fucker released an article with three statements or whatever you fucking call them—three bitches running their mouths—and they all accuse Grayson, Lawrence, and me of being evil, sexual predators that do sexual predator shit. Now, I’d love to just strangle Damian and skewer his ass on the school statue, but Lawrence already wants to kill me for other reasons, so I can’t hurt him. So, I need to talk to Grayson, and he’s not picking up.”
Damian. He released the testimonies.
“What the fuck,” I mumble.
“Exactly.” Eric jabs his cigarette so hard against the palm of his hand that it collapses, leaving the tobacco to bounce off his hand onto the sidewalk. “Son of a fucker.”
He pulls out another cigarette, quickly shoving this one into his mouth.
“Now, I’d really, really, really love to beat the shit out of someone,” he says. “So, it would be helpful if you could tell me where Grayson is, so he can tell me who I can beat the shit out of.”
“I don’t know where he is,” I say. “Maybe you could call his father.”
He pulls the cigarette out of his mouth. The end of it has teeth indents in it.
“No…” he says, drawing the word out like I’m stupid. “I can’t call his father because if this fucking thing goes to trial, they’ll use that as proof that we were getting our story straight. Damn it. You’re useless. I have to go. Don’t get yourself fucking murdered by Brady while I’m gone.”
“Eric—" I start, but he’s already jogging away.
Motherfucker.
I move without thinking. A hot, dangerous energy detonates inside me, demolishing anything other than fury. Eric always seemed insane, but his anger is the same as my anger right now.
He might not be allowed to hurt Damian, but those restrictions don’t apply to me.
I could hurt him.
I could hurt him for every single time he hurt me and for every time he hurt Grayson. For every second he’s hated me—I could make that hate justified. I could give him a legitimate reason to hate me. I could destroy his life like he thinks I destroyed his life.
When I reach the villa, I try the doorknob, but it’s locked. I bang on the door, hard enough that pain reverberates through my hand when I stop. I wait. And wait. And bang on the door some more.
The door jerks open. When I see Damian, rage plows through me. I shove him as hard as I can. He stumbles back, catching himself on a cabinet.
“What the fuck is your problem?” I demand, stepping in. “Is it hard for you when you have to use your second brain cell, or do you just prefer using one?”
“I did what I said I’d do.”
He glares at me, but he can’t compete with my wrath. My fingernails are digging into my palms. It takes all of my self-restraint not to attack him.
“Some people aren’t good,” he says. “You should know that better than anyone. People are just getting what’s coming to them.”
“If that’s true, I can’t wait to see what’s coming to you.”
“Oh, Cin,” he says with a condescending smile. “I’m aware none of this ends well. The difference between you and me is that I don’t care. I have nothing to lose. I’ll take us both down happily.”
He abruptly grabs my shoulders and shoves me back out onto the porch. He slams the door shut, leaving me out in the cold.
“So.” Ollie makes a wide gesture to the drawing mannequin, whose smooth wooden arms are raised up. “What do you see when you look at this guy?”
Feet scuff against the floor and hands clasp tightly on the art room floor. Several of my classmates stare at the mannequin like it might reveal the answer in a song and dance. Since the testimonies became Roman Academy’s favorite hearsay and heresy, nobody has any interest in unraveling any of life’s other mysteries. Especially not a mystery invented by an art teacher and his mannequin.
“Layla?” Ollie prompts, looking over at Aurora’s ex-friend—the bitch who beat me at homecoming.
After Diana’s death, she’d questioned Aurora about Grayson’s vanishing act, prompting her to be kicked out of Aurora’s friend group. Under most circumstances, I would have celebrated her downfall, but she’s thrown herself into her art since then, and she’s in the Daniel Comstock Art Award competition. I don’t see her as much of a threat as Jay, but with Aurora’s mother as a judge for it, I can’t trust that Aurora won’t help her cheat. Aurora has already tried to fuck up my chances. I wouldn’t put it past her.
“He’s surrendering,” she says, firmly. “Somebody has a gun pointed at him. His life is flashing before his eyes, and he’s distraught over all of the mistakes he’s made in his life.”
“What makes you think that?”
“His arms are raised,” she shrugs. “The rest is obvious.”
“Anybody else?” Ollie asks.
I cover my mouth to hide my smirk as Layla’s shoulders slump.
“He’s tripping,” Jay says. “Literally, not biochemically.”
“And why do you think that?”
“His arms are raised,” he concedes, “But his leg is also slightly bent like he’s trying to steady himself. Someone who had a gun pointed at him would be standing more stiffly.”
“Anybody else?” he asks. “Cinnamon?”
I sit up taller, dropping my hand away from my face. “Uh, he’s celebrating. For similar reasons as Jay, but the other leg is too steady to be tripping. I don’t know. I just get the sense that he’s happy.”
Ollie bends his leg and throws his arms up like the mannequin. We all laugh. He bounces back up to his lanky posture, dropping his arms.
“You’re all right,” he says. “And you’re all wrong. All of you talented folks are going to draw the mannequin from one of those frames of mind, or one of your own. We’ll see who’s more accurate. Remember that when we draw people, we can’t see them as objects. They are moving, and you need to concentrate on that movement more than creating an exact copy of what you see. The difference between drawing a chair and drawing a person is movement.”