by Callie Rose
His hand is on my low belly, fingers working the button of my jeans, and I bump my hips away from the wall, urging him on. I reach down and grip him through his pants, squeezing just hard enough to make him grunt, but before I can do more than that, he’s got my fly down. Then he’s tearing my pants down my legs, the action so fast and rough I almost stumble and fall. He rips my shoes off and discards my jeans in a pile, and without letting me catch my breath, he buries his face between my thighs.
A breathy, plaintive cry falls from my lips as he sucks and nips at my clit through my panties, making the already damp fabric even wetter. My hands are in his hair, and I don’t know if I’m trying to push him away or pull him closer or find some kind of anchor in this storm, but I keep hanging on as he shreds the delicate fabric from my body and runs his tongue all the way up my slit.
He circles my clit with hard, demanding strokes as he slides two fingers inside me, pumping them fast and deep, and when my knees start to shake, he surges to his feet, unzipping his pants and shoving them down around his hips as he uses the slickness left on his fingers to coat his cock.
His expression is feral, determined, and hot as he releases himself and palms my ass before lifting me in his arms like I weigh nothing. He kisses me in a frenzy as his hips bump against mine, and the second the head of his cock slips inside my pussy, he drives forward, pinning me to the wall again.
He’s big, but I’m so wet the intrusion doesn’t hurt. I just feel full. Totally consumed by him, overtaken by him. As if the last thin barrier between us has vanished, and with every hard thrust, he’s literally melding us into one being.
I wrap my arms around his neck and hold on as the collision of our bodies shakes the wall behind me. We’re not even kissing anymore. Our faces are millimeters apart, our noses practically brushing, our lips nearly connected. His eyes are too close to mine for me to focus on them properly, but I stare into them anyway, unable to look away.
My clit is throbbing, my walls clenching around him. Every time he drives into me, pleasure spikes in a higher wave, and when he finally jerks to a stop and grinds his pelvis against mine, when I feel him pulse inside me as he lets out a deep grunt, it makes me come like I never have in my life. My legs lock around him as if I’m trying to keep him from ever pulling out, and I roll my hips over and over, riding his dick until the last aftershocks of pleasure die out.
He uses the wall to hold me up, still impaled on his cock, as his head drops to my shoulder, his hot, damp breath hitting the crook of my neck. My heartbeat is a heavy, dull thump in my chest, and I can feel his pounding against his ribcage too.
Neither of us moves for several moments. But with each second that passes, reality settles in a little bit more.
I just fucked my boss’s son, the boy who’s made my life hell in more ways than one for weeks, in the hallway of the house where I work. A house I’m not even totally sure is empty. I’m naked from the waist down, my panties and shirt are in tatters, and I can feel his cum oozing from the place where we’re still connected.
What the fuck did you just do, Harlow?
Maybe Lincoln is thinking something along the same lines, or maybe he has his own completely different reasons for shutting down, but I can feel it happening. He’s still inside me, and I can feel the walls between us going back up.
He pulls out, and although his touch is gentle as he lowers me to my feet, he won’t meet my eyes. He gives me a second to get my shaky legs under me before he lets go and steps back.
I can’t look at his face either, can’t handle what I know I’ll see there. So I bend and gather my scattered clothes, clutching them to my naked body like some kind of shield.
“I have to go. I have to… work.”
He doesn’t speak or try to stop me. I can feel his gaze on me as I make my way back down the hall, but I don’t glance back. His cum is sliding down my leg, sticky and wet, and my body feels like it just went to war.
I can’t believe how fucking stupid that was. My mom’s gone, and I know his parents are out of town, and Gwen, the cook, shouldn’t be arriving for another hour or so. But what if she came early? It’s not unheard of.
Fuck.
As I dart past the west wing stairs, I glance over at them, needing to confirm that Gwen isn’t standing there, having seen everything.
She’s not.
But River is.
He’s standing midway up the stairs, and his gray-blue eyes track my movement as I freeze in place. His expression is unreadable as our gazes lock for a split second, and my heart drops into my stomach.
He knows.
Whether he saw it all or not, he knows. There’s no mistaking the way I look, the state of my clothes, the smell of sex that probably still hangs in the air.
Down the hall behind me, I hear Lincoln’s door click shut. He doesn’t know River is here.
And there’s no fucking way I’m telling him.
Tearing my gaze away from the quiet, mysterious, entirely too observant boy, I turn and practically sprint for my room.
21
I told Lincoln I had to clean, but I don’t.
Instead, I shower and change into a tank top and shorts and then curl up under the covers in my large, soft bed. My body feels bruised and marked, and despite having just showered, I can still feel Lincoln everywhere on me—in me. I swear his scent permeated my skin or something, because no amount of pomegranate body wash has erased the musky coriander smell of him from my nostrils.
My entire lower body is a little sore, and I feel… empty somehow.
Like I was full—whole—for just a little while, and now that I know what that feels like, the absence of it makes me feel hollow.
When a soft tap comes on my door, I don’t even respond. I don’t have the energy to try to guess who it might be or what they might want.
But it’s Mom, and when she sees me in bed with the lights off, she crosses to sit next to me, brushing her hand over my forehead. “Low? You okay? What’s wrong?”
“I’ve got a… headache,” I mumble, hating that it’s one more lie between us.
I could tell her what happened. She’s not prudish about sex, and she had me when she was nineteen, so she has a pretty realistic view of what teenagers get up to. She’s the one who took me to get a prescription for the pill when I turned fifteen. So she wouldn’t judge me or make me feel like shit for having sex.
But even so, I can’t. I can’t bring myself to tell her what happened—because it wasn’t just sex. It was a mess of fucked up emotions that confuses and terrifies me. It’s a web of secrets and lies that spreads wider than I ever imagined.
I don’t want her to know I’ve gotten myself in way over my head.
“Oh, I’m sorry, sweetheart. Can I get you something? Did you take anything for it?” She continues to stroke the hair away from my face, her touch feather-light.
“I think I just need sleep,” I say, my throat constricting around the words. “Thanks, Mom.”
“Of course.” Her brows are still pulled together with concern, but she smiles down at me.
“How was coffee?”
“Oh.” Her smile shifts, lifting up higher on one side than the other, the way it does when she really thinks something is funny. “It was… good.”
I squint up at her. “That’s loaded.”
She chuckles. “No, it really was good. It was nice to see her. She’s doing great. She’s got a huge house on the other side of town, her husband is some kind of day trader, and they vacation in Belize two months out of the year.” Then she shrugs, tilting her head as she gazes down at me. “It all sounds great, but it just made me realize—I’m glad it’s her life, and not mine. Because I like mine just the way it is.”
Reaching up, I grab the hand that’s ghosting over my hair and squeeze it gently, bringing it to rest near my heart. “I love you, Mom.”
“Love you back, Low. Get some rest, okay? I’ll come check on you again in a bit.”
I nod,
pressing back the tears that burn my eyes.
She probably does come check on me later, but I miss it. A short while after she leaves, I fall into a deep sleep, where I dream of agony and ecstasy, of love, betrayal, and murder.
I’m incredibly nervous to see Lincoln the next morning. So much so that I’m almost late meeting him downstairs. Only the fear of a repeat of the time he walked in on me naked forces my feet down the stairs at 7:25 a.m.
He’s waiting for me by the door, and his gaze scans my body almost like he’s checking for something. Hickeys? Bruises, maybe?
They’re there, but nowhere anyone can see them.
He doesn’t say a word as he turns and leads me through the house and out to the garage. Only when we’re in the car does he say in a voice that’s carefully neutral, “River came over last night. We’re working on a plan to get some kind of lead on who the man in the mask was. To figure out what the cops know.”
Yeah, I know River came over, Mr. King of Campus. He saw me naked from the waist down with a pile of ripped clothes in my arms. I’m surprised he didn’t mention it to you.
And I really don’t think he did. If River had told Lincoln what he saw, I’m almost positive I’d know it.
“Okay.”
It’s all I say. I can’t muster up the energy to feel either interested or angry about whatever new plan Lincoln and his friends are cooking up. If there was an emergency stop lever on this runaway train I find myself on, I would’ve pulled it a long time ago.
But I don’t think there is.
He must hear some of what I’m feeling in my voice, because his gaze flicks to me. “We’ll see if we can figure out who knocked Iris up.”
The clear implication is that he wants me to know it wasn’t him. And grudgingly, almost against my will, I do believe that. I still hate that he kept their past hookups from me, but I don’t doubt the truth of what he told me when we were screaming at each other in the foyer yesterday.
Whatever plan Lincoln and River cooked up though, they don’t make any moves on it for the next several days. All they do is increase their watch on me, and I’m about ready to scream at all of them that hovering over me all the time isn’t helping anything.
Not Iris. Not me.
Nobody fucking needs this.
And to be honest, it bugs the fuck out of me that after everything that’s happened between us, they still don’t trust me. They still feel the need to watch me like I’m going to rat them out to the police any second.
Maybe that’s what prompts me to sneak out of the house on Friday night. I just want them to realize they don’t get to have the last word on where I go or what I do. Plus, my stress level has been through the roof lately, and nothing relaxes me quite like playing poker.
As we left Biology, I poked Max about when the next game was, and he grudgingly admitted there’s one tonight. I couldn’t help glancing over my shoulder as we spoke, half-expecting one of the guys to be there eavesdropping, but all I saw was a gaggle of cheerleaders. And they don’t give a shit about poker.
I haven’t snuck out in a while, and not once since Iris’s death, so I’m hoping it won’t even occur to Lincoln that I would try. At eleven o’clock, I open and close my door carefully before tiptoeing to the service entrance and down the stairs. In the detached garage, I climb inside Mom’s car and take a deep breath. This is the part I’m worried about. Her Nissan is old, but it still runs pretty smoothly. The engine doesn’t rumble or growl. But if someone was listening for it, they could probably still pick up the sound, even from inside the house.
Or maybe not. Maybe I’m just being paranoid. But even so, my nerves flare as I turn the key in the ignition. I leave the lights off as I roll slowly down the driveway, glancing up through the side window at the house. All the windows on the front of the house are dark, and I squint, trying to make out any shapes behind the dark glass. Someone standing and watching me, maybe.
But I don’t see anything, and less than a minute later, the gate slides quietly open and allows me to leave.
As I drive away from the Black mansion, a strange, giddy feeling fills me. It’s a combination of relief, excitement, and fear. As much as I chafe against the constant surveillance Lincoln and the others have me under, there’s a certain sense of safety that comes with it. This is my first time going out at night alone since Iris’s murder, and like a kid who’s seen too many horror movies, I find myself glancing at shadows nervously, constantly checking my rearview mirror.
Twice, I almost turn around and go home, but I really do want to play. My fingertips are itching to hold some cards, and I haven’t been able to put any money into my mom’s account for a while. She’s getting paid bi-weekly, and she’s received several paychecks by now, so it’s not like the situation is dire—but still.
As I pull into the small lot outside the warehouse where Carson and the other Linwood students set up their games, I tamp down the panic that tries to bubble up inside me. It’s dark here, like it was the night Iris was killed, but at least I know this place. I know what’s waiting for me inside, and it’s good. Even if I end up losing tonight, I’ll hardly care. I just want to play. To do one thing that makes me feel semi-normal for a while.
There are several cars already parked near the entrance, so I pull into the next open space down the line, hop out, and walk quickly to the door. When I yank on it and it opens smoothly, letting the light from within spill outside, comfort washes over me.
Carson rolls his eyes when he sees me, but I give him my most charming smile and promise him I’ve been feeling very unlucky lately.
“Yeah, sure.” He snorts as he hands me my chips.
That wasn’t entirely a lie, but as Gus always used to say, if you think poker is all about luck, you’re playing it wrong. And even though I haven’t had the best luck in the rest of my life lately, I’ve still got every skill and trick those two old men taught me up my sleeve.
I settle at a table with mostly players I haven’t seen before. The auburn-haired girl, Monica, is there again, and she gives me a grudging look of respect as I sit down.
We’re the only two girls at the table again, and I nod back at her, giving her the same look. I do respect her. Not that it’s gonna stop me from taking her money.
The first few hands are a little rough. I can tell my mind is a million different places, and I miss an easy tell from the guy sitting to my left. My counting game is also off at first, but I don’t let myself spiral. By the next hand, I’m getting back into the groove, and from there on out, it’s a total beating.
I end up cashing out with nearly three thousand dollars, and the high I feel as Carson counts a neat stack of hundreds into my palm is worth the stress of getting here.
The games at the other tables are all winding down, and I’m feeling good enough that I almost decide to stick around and have a drink like I know most people do afterward, but I also don’t want to push my luck too far. There should be no reason for Lincoln to realize I’m gone in the middle of the night, but who knows with that fucking guy.
So I just shove the bills into my back pocket and head out into the night.
Though the warehouse isn’t all that brightly lit, the darkness outside seems even deeper by contrast. But with the thrill of victory buzzing in my veins, it doesn’t feel quite as threatening as it did before. I dig my keys out of my pocket as I approach my car, slipping them into the lock and—
Something slams into me from behind.
A body.
Large. Tall. Muscled.
Harsh breaths fall in my ear as whoever it is pins me between his weight and the Nissan. My hands are trapped between my body and the car, and I can’t pull them free.
My scream is cut off before it even forms, muffled by the hand that clamps over my face. The man’s other arm slides under my jaw, snaking around my throat.
A wave of panic like I’ve never felt before surges through me, and I use every bit of strength I have to shove myself away from th
e car. I manage to bring a leg up, and I kick against the side door, using the strongest muscles in my body to leverage my attacker backward a few steps. He grunts and staggers, regaining his footing as he tightens his grip on my neck, and I feel my air supply start to dwindle.
I scream into his hand, lashing out with my elbows now that I have room. One catches him in the ribs, and he lets out another muffled, pained sound.
But it’s not enough. I’m twisting, writhing, kicking and punching, but it’s not enough to break his grip. My throat aches, and terror fills my veins like poison as I struggle to suck in air.
There’s a loud revving sound and a screech, and suddenly, the arms around me drop away. I fall sideways and hit the ground hard, making pain flare through my hip. My palms scrape against the rough pavement as I gasp and cough, breathing desperately. There’s a flash of lights and another screeching noise, then the sound of doors slamming and loud voices yelling.
They sound angry. Furious.
I drag in another breath, trying to focus. To figure out what’s happening, where the threat went—and where it’s coming from next.
Hands grab me again, and I lash out wildly, punching and kicking.
“Hey, hey! Harlow! It’s me!”
“River…?” I choke out.
I whip my head around, trying to make him out in the darkness. The door to the warehouse opens, and in that flash of light, I see a look of stark fear on his face.
He uses the opportunity to examine me, running his hands up and down my body like he’s checking for bullet holes or stab wounds.
“What the fuck were you thinking?” His voice is low and harsh. “This isn’t a fucking game, Harlow. We’re trying to keep you safe, but we can’t be with you every damn second. Why would you sneak out like that?”
“Safe…?”
He’s not making any sense. They’ve been watching me to keep themselves safe, haven’t they? To make sure I didn’t blab to the wrong people. Not because they were worried for me. Not because they thought I might be in danger.
