This Boy

by Jenna Scott

  I stomp into the pool house, my foot immediately finding an empty cup and sending it rattling into another. Turns out the stoners were marginally more decent than everyone else because they at least weren’t throwing their trash all over the place.

  EDM is rattling the windows so loud I have to plug my ears. I notice the dining table has been moved to the corner and seems to function as the chips and snacks station. The kitchen-slash-bar area is crowded, and the rest of the place isn’t much better. A couple people I recognize from school are here, but mostly it’s a sea of strangers that surrounds me, and I wade through the human chaos like it’s mud.

  Someone’s drink spills on the floor. There are laughs. Rage boils inside me.

  Nobody here is going to clean this. They’re not going to be mopping beer off the floors, scrubbing the sticky tables, washing the stench of marijuana and cigarette smoke from the drapes. My mom is.

  They can’t even put their empty cups and bottles in the garbage. Or maybe they are, in their minds, because they’re treating this house like it’s a gigantic trash can.

  I walk right to the sound system in the corner and lower the master volume. “Can you all please be quieter?” I scream to the room. “Hunter’s brother is asleep.”

  But they just keep talking, their loudness even more obvious with the music quieter. Then someone slips behind me and turns the volume all the way back up.

  “Are you kidding me?” I yell at the guy, someone with thick brows and the same douchebag attitude I’ve seen countless times in these trust fund babies.

  “I’d never kid you, Miss Hottie,” he says, looking down at me like I’m a platter of shrimp and cocktail sauce that pairs perfectly with the beer in his hand. “What’s your name?”

  I roll my eyes, heading for a circle of people standing at the end of the hallway that presumably leads to the bathroom and whatever other rooms are back there.

  “Where’s Hunter?” I demand, raising my voice to be heard over the music.

  Confusion flits between them. Two of them look at each other and shrug, but someone else points down the hall, where all I see are closed doors.

  My stomach turns. If he’s in one of the bedrooms, he’s definitely not alone. A repeat of the X-rated pool situation isn’t something I want to experience, but what else can I do when letting the party blow up out of control like this isn’t an option? I can’t even imagine how bad it would be if the cops showed up. I’d be out of a job for sure, my mom would blow a gasket, and I’d never get to see Harry again. I can’t risk that.

  With every step down the darkened hallway, my body becomes heavier with dread. There are a couple people in line for the bathroom, which leaves two other doors to try since the smaller door next to the bathroom opens onto a linen closet.

  The room at the end of the hall has a light on and the door ajar, so I peer in there first. About five or six heads swivel my way, and it’s obvious there’s nothing going on in here but the requisite smoking and drinking, just a bit more quietly. Frankly, I’m surprised no one’s hijacked the room to get down and dirty yet. I guess it’s still early.

  This leaves the other bedroom, the door to which is closed. I knock, though with the music on full blast, I doubt anyone inside heard. Pressing my ear to the door doesn’t reveal anything either.

  “Hunter?” I yell. Nothing.

  Breathing deeply to steel myself, I fling open the door.

  It’s dark in here, the only illumination coming through the window from the pool lights outside. Still, it’s enough for me to make out Hunter sitting in an upholstered chair by the window. A girl sits on his lap, straddling him, breathing hard. They’re both clothed, thankfully, but he has one hand flat against her back, the other down between her legs. Her skirt is pulled up so high, I see a flash of her round, bare ass twitching back and forth over his hand before I turn away and throw up a hand to cover my eyes. I could be wrong, but I think he had his fingers inside her.

  “What do you want?” he asks, and I hear the girl murmuring something to him.

  A combination of embarrassment and anger ripples through me. How do I always end up in these awkward situations? And why does Hunter Beck always have to act like such a Neanderthal?

  Refusing to turn in his direction, I say, “You said you were going to keep the noise down. This—=,” with my other hand, I gesture to the music blaring in the other room, “isn’t keeping it down. Your brother’s bound to wake up any second.”

  “You’re overreacting. If Harry’s asleep, he’ll keep on sleeping through it.”

  My nostrils flare with my sharp inhale, and I snap, “Either you turn the music down, or I will call the cops with a noise complaint myself. Your choice, Hunter.”

  Without looking back, I stalk out of the room and slam the door behind me.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Camilla

  I stampede out of the pool house and go back upstairs to check on Harrison. Although the music does soften behind me, my eyes burn with tears, and my breaths have become desperate gulps for air.

  After peeking in at Harry, who is blessedly fine, I ease his door shut and lean against the wall with my head tilted back and my eyes closed. Technically, my shift is done—I can go home now. But I’m too angry and shaken to keep it together, and the last thing I want is to have random people driving down the street all staring at me as I walk to the bus stop crying and alone.

  “Camilla,” a voice says. I know it’s Hunter before I even open my eyes.

  “What are you doing up here?” I rage, glaring at him as I try to blink back tears. “Think I can’t take care of your brother? I do it almost every day, so I’m pretty sure I can handle it.” I spit the words like they’re poison. “Go be with your friends.”

  My chest feels like it’s being crushed. I can’t stand that he caught me crying.

  “I didn’t come up here to check on my brother,” he says.

  Stepping toward me slowly, like I’m a bird about to take flight, he reaches toward my face and brushes a tear away with his thumb. He’s so gentle, I gasp. All I can do is go still under his touch, my gaze dropping to his full lips that are slightly parted.

  When I look back up, our eyes catch. We’re so close I can feel his body heat.

  “Were you curious what I was doing to her when you walked in?” he asks, his voice husky, stepping in closer.

  I’m already back against the wall, so there’s nowhere for me to go. “I mean, I… It was pretty obvious,” I say, but I’m whispering.

  His torso presses into mine, and lower down, something thick and solid brushes against my hip. Is that his cock? A rush of adrenaline courses through me.

  My pulse is kicking so hard and fast I can feel it in my throat. I can feel every point of contact between us like it’s fire. I want to feel more of his body. I want to press back. I want to touch him. But I don’t.

  I have no idea what I’m doing, especially when it comes to Hunter Beck.

  His hand comes up to cup my cheek, making it impossible for me to look at anything that isn’t him. “Did you want it to be you?”

  I try to deny it, but my voice lacks conviction. “No.”

  “I think you’re lying.” He trails his hand down the curve of my neck, just barely touching the sensitive skin there, a teasing gesture that has me on the tips of my toes. I have to bite my lip to keep myself from gasping again.

  Hunter’s mouth forms a sinful smile as he leans in, stealing my breath, letting me think he’s going to kiss me. I hate myself for being so eager, so desperate. Hate how hot he’s making me, how good it feels to have him so close, how it’s too damn hard to walk away because all I want is more, more, more. His other hand skims the outside of my thigh. My knee jerks, and I squeeze my legs together and turn my face away.

  Touch me, I’m thinking. Touch me because I’m too scared to touch you first.

  I feel his warm breath on my neck as he says, “Have you ever had someone’s fingers inside you?” He may as
well have said open sesame because the low rumble of his voice in my ear is so good that my legs actually open.

  Taking it as an invitation, his fingers trace the seam of my jeans where my legs meet, and my insides go liquid. All of me is heat and longing. I can’t say no, but I can’t say yes either. I’m afraid of how bad I want this. Want him.

  I move my legs farther apart, giving him easier access, and Hunter smoothly dips his hand down to cup my center, using the heel of his palm to stroke me through the thin denim. My body instinctively reacts by grinding into his hand, demanding more.

  Heart pumping faster, I let out a breath as he unbuttons my pants.

  “Camilla,” Hunter draws my name out in a whisper as he slides my zipper down.

  I know I should be ashamed I’m letting him have his way with me, but everything he’s doing feels so good.

  He slips his hand down the front of my pants, over my cotton underwear. I’m throbbing under the heat of his touch, trembling at the way his fingers are just a thin shred of fabric away from me.

  “Tell me to stop, and I’ll stop,” he murmurs.

  My nails dig into his chest, bunching up his shirt. His pecs are taut and smooth under my hands.

  “Tell me,” he says again.

  I shake my head. No, I don’t want him to stop. And now he knows it.

  His fingers suddenly hook around the crotch of my panties and tug, so his knuckles are brushing against my pussy lips. My core tightens in pure agony, and all I can do is hold my breath, both wanting and not wanting him to do more.

  I hide my face in Hunter’s shoulder. He makes little circles with his knuckles, stroking me until I’m buzzing and breathing hard. He’s not even inside me yet, and I’m already seeing stars from the lightest of touches. How will it feel when he goes all the way? His fingers are so big, I wonder…

  And then he’s turning his hand, slowly teasing my lower lips apart and sliding a finger between them, gliding it up and down my slit to gently swirl my own wetness around. My toes lift me up, and I bury a soft moan in his shoulder. Just do it, I think. Put it inside me.

  I can feel his lips against the shell of my ear. “You’re so fucking wet.”

  About ready to die, is what I am. Of shame. Of agony. Of want.

  I’ve still got his shirt in my fists, clinging to him to keep from falling. I lift my head from his shoulder just enough to bite the outline his collarbone makes, for no other reason than it’s there, and it’s part of him, and it’s safer than his mouth.

  He gives a sharp intake of breath and then switches to longer strokes, his fingers sliding from my opening up to my clit, back and forth, up and down. I’m tight with anticipation, dizzy with it. When he finally pushes the pads of his fingers directly against my clit, lightning strikes. And again, and again, as he repeats the pattern, sliding down and then up and then pressing that sweet, aching spot.

  My breath turns ragged, and I realize my eyes have squeezed shut. I’m anticipating his circles now, tensing up just before he taps my clit, thrusting just a little every time his finger dips down low, waiting for the delicious moment he’ll finally stop teasing and push his finger inside. The pleasure is building, and as it does, so does the need to let myself continue with this indulgence, ride it out to the end.

  “Maybe you weren’t jealous,” he whispers.

  And then he’s sliding his finger into me, slow and strong and so perfect. I moan, the ecstasy bending my back, and holy shit it feels incredible, more than I’d ever dreamed of.

  My hands go to his shoulders, and I press my face into his neck, breathing hard, waiting for more. He pulls his finger out and then slides it slowly back in again, stopping again, drawing pleasure out of my body with expert precision.

  He’s good. Too good. It’s a miracle I’m still holding myself upright. I’m going to come right in his hand any second if he keeps using his fingers like this. I can feel it.

  “Maybe you were turned on by what you saw,” he goes on, his voice a hot, low murmur as he pumps his finger slowly back and forth. “Or maybe it turned you on because it was me.”

  And that’s when I realize he hasn’t even kissed me yet. He has no problem sticking his hand down my pants, but his mouth hasn’t touched mine.

  The reality of the situation slams into me. I’m not going to be another one of his one-night conquests.

  I pull his hand away and then push him back, hard.

  “You’re so full of yourself,” I say, zipping my pants up and buttoning them angrily. Disappointment bubbles inside me, both at myself and at Hunter. Looking at him makes it worse. “Go back to your party. I’m sure there are plenty of other girls for you to choose from.”

  I run back to the refuge of Harrison’s room and close the door behind me. Sinking to the floor, I start shaking, unable to believe I let Hunter do those things to me. Unable to believe I’d enjoyed every minute of it…and that even now, I want him to do it all again.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Camilla

  What kind of girl just stands there and lets some guy she’s not even dating do that to them? It’s all I can think about later as I toss and turn in bed. Hunter had jumped right to third base with me for his own amusement, or maybe just to take something from me, and I’m still shocked and ashamed at how good it felt to almost give in to him.

  What was his motive? Has he been planning something like this all along? Is my lack of experience or my status as “the help” some kind of sick challenge to him, or does he just like toying with me because it’s entertaining for him—some story he can laugh about with his friends later?

  Or maybe it’s pure entitlement. After all, he’s used to getting whatever he wants. Whomever he wants.

  I bury my face in my pillow and let out a deep sigh. It’s after midnight, and I’m completely wide awake.

  Giving up on sleep, I switch on the nightstand lamp and open up the book I’m reading. It takes me about five minutes too long to realize I’ve been going over the same page over and over again, not absorbing any of it. I toss the book down in frustration and turn out the light again.

  Between my legs, a hot ache throbs, and I curl onto my side and squeeze my thighs together as I try to ignore it. My body still hums with pent-up tension, silently demanding that I finish what Hunter started.

  It’s a vicious cycle. The more I try to wish it away, the more I remember, and as I recount the details, I can’t deny that everything he did to me turned me on.

  The way he pressed me into the wall, the way he touched my face, the glide of his hand up my thigh. The stroke of his hot fingers up and down my wet lips. Tapping my clit at just the right intervals, plunging inside me so agonizingly. He knew exactly what he was doing, exactly what would make me feel good—even though I didn’t.

  I try to dissect it, think about it scientifically. This isn’t about Hunter. It can’t be. It’s just the result of perfectly natural, raging teenage hormones. They’re the sole reason I’m attracted to him at all, the reason I couldn’t push him away right at the beginning. Why I let him go as far as he did. He could have been anyone.

  God, I’m a bad liar.

  The truth is, I only stopped him because I realized he was treating me like another one of his toys. But what’s worse than the way he played with me is how quickly I lost all sense of myself. That’s what scares me most. That even though I knew full well there was no intimacy to him touching me, I’d still wanted it to go on. And on.

  I’d almost lost control.

  Thankfully, I pulled his hand away before I had an orgasm. There’s some kind of bonding chemical that gets released in your brain when you come with a guy, and I don’t need any more reasons to get attached to that asshole. At the same time, part of me does regret running off, just a little. Hunter’s fingers felt so good. I was so close.

  Even though I’ve read about orgasms before, I’ve never actually had one. What I’ve put together from my research is that it’s usually a series of muscular contracti
ons, a flood of endorphins, and a release of sexual tension that’s sort of like a warm explosion. Which makes it sound more like a science experiment having to do with combustibles than the sublime experience I always assumed it would be.

  Either way, it’s hard to get in the mood to touch yourself when you live in tiny crappy apartments with paper-thin walls, and when you’re usually so exhausted at night that you just collapse into bed and fall into a dreamless sleep.

  But tonight’s not one of those nights.

  Plus, it’s not like I’ll ever know what I enjoy if I don’t try it myself first.

  I’ve already wedged one of my stuffed animals between my legs by the time I realize I’m trying to convince myself it’s okay to finish myself off. I squeeze my legs together around the plushie, and the pressure feels good. I take a deep breath.

  My door’s locked, I’m alone, and I can’t sleep with Hunter on my mind. There’s no way I’ll be able to relax if I don’t take care of this.

  I press harder on the stuffed toy, grinding gently against it.

  Behind my closed eyelids, I see Hunter gazing down at me intently, our bodies pressed against each other, the wall at my back, his fingers sliding up and down my pussy. His cock digging into my hip as he breathes into my ear. Now that I’m replaying it all in my mind, I realize something. Although I’d been too caught up in the moment to think about it at the time, I’m pretty sure he was as turned on as I was. I heard it when his breath caught, and more importantly, I felt it.

  I should’ve grabbed him, seen how he liked it. Traced the shape of him with my finger, stroked him through the fabric. Maybe I should have pushed him into the wall, rubbed myself against the bulge in his pants.

  Under the sheets, massaging myself with the toy, my imagination takes flight. Hunter’s voice, telling me the reason he dragged me away from Matt’s party is that he didn’t want anyone else touching me. His lips on mine, his fingers pumping inside me, harder, deeper, the friction driving me to a pleasure close to madness.