by Angel Lawson
I duck behind a tall freshman, using him as a shield to get close to my target. When I’m finally in the right position, staring at a perfectly pressed pair of pants, and a perfectly sculpted swimmer’s ass, I tuck the note in his back pocket and skitter off, blood pounding in my ears, refusing to look back.
Maybe he’ll find it. Maybe he won’t.
I’ll find out tonight.
The way I see it, there’s risk for both of us.
For me, there’s the humiliation of realizing this is nothing but a well-orchestrated prank. For him, well...
He has to come to Hayden after curfew and find me. He wanted privacy and a bed. I didn’t want him in my room.
Room 216 seemed like a good option.
At least, it did, until now.
I pace the dark room as sweat beads up on my lower back. A sick feeling builds in my stomach and I wring my hands worriedly. What am I doing? Why am I doing this?
The door opens and shuts, the hallway light casting a glow on Hamilton’s handsome profile.
Right. That’s why.
I circle behind his tall frame and lock the door. Turning, I ask, “Did anyone—”
“No,” he breathes, pulling me to him. Our bodies meet before our mouths do, his tongue sliding over my lower lip, prodding me to open my mouth. He tastes of mint, and he doesn’t waste a moment before walking me backwards, across the room, until we’re in front of the bed.
I make a pained sound when our noses push together and he jerks back, hands coming up to cup my face.
“Fuck,” he breathes, licking his lips. “Forgot about this shit. Let me see. You okay?”
“It’s nothing,” I insist, but allow him to look his fill. The bruise is a deep mottled blue that extends under my eyes. “It looks worse than it is, really.” The fact that we can’t risk turning on the overhead light in this room had been a not-insignificant factor in me choosing it. I figure that seeing it in full light isn’t conducive to our goal tonight.
His thumbs raise to gently graze my cheekbones, jaw hardening. “You find out who did this, you tell me.”
“I don’t know who—”
“But if you find out,” he presses, holding my gaze. “I mean it. Someone’s got a kick to the fucking face coming to them.”
I roll my eyes. “You don’t have to do anything.”
“Don’t I?” he mutters, thumbs brushing below my eyes. “I knew this would happen. This is exactly why I told everyone to pretend you didn’t exist. Some of the people here are fucking animals.”
I shrug, at a loss. Is it better to be kicked in the face than to be ignored for months on end? It’s a question that I honestly can’t answer. “If I find out who it is,” I promise, hands coming up to his wrists, “I’ll tell you.”
Hamilton nods, finally freeing me from the pin of his fierce stare to look at the bed. “It’s a double.” He then takes a broader look at the room. “Where are we?”
“Guest room. For visitors or prospective students. It’s hardly ever used, but it’s private, and yeah.” I gesture to the bed. “It has a double, so I figured...”
A wicked grin tugs at his lips. “Smart. Two floors away from your own room.”
We stand there for a moment, looking at each other, and it doesn’t take long for the air between us to start crackling again. Hamilton’s tongue peeks out to wet his lips and I unconsciously mimic him, hands landing on his broad chest.
“So.” I breathe, bunching the fabric of his shirt and pulling him to me.
“Yeah, just...” He pushes a slow, wet kiss to my mouth, whispering, “Tell me if it hurts.”
I nod, deepening the kiss when his deft fingers pluck at the buttons on my shirt, but it doesn’t hurt. It keeps not-hurting when he gets my shirt open, fingers grazing over the lace of my bra. I push at his shirt, eager to feel his skin against me. He yanks it off quickly, rewarding me with a shadowy view of his upper body. I reach out and touch the hard, muscular flesh, dragging my fingers down until I tangle them in the soft hair on his lower belly. Hamilton hisses, his belly caving. I can see his cock already pressing at the fabric of his pants. We move to the bed in unison, my shirt falling from my shoulders. He grabs at the flesh of my hip as he presses between my legs, rocking into me with another deep kiss.
There’s no pretense as he reaches back, pulling the condom out of his pocket and clutching it in his hand. He rears back to unbutton his pants, his heavy-lidded eyes dragging down my body as he shoves them down his thighs, kicking them away. I climb over his hips and straddle him, bending to kiss him on my terms, deep and consuming. When I pull back, the spark in his eyes tells me that he’s surprised but likes it. My control is fleeting, as he pushes his tongue in my mouth, dominating the kiss and leaving me panting. I grind against him, causing us both to exhale in frustrated bliss.
His hands slide up my legs, up to my hips, where he holds me in place. I feel him grow beneath me, nothing but the thin cotton of our underwear as a barrier, my own growing increasingly damp by the second. He struggles for a moment with my bra, this one clasping different.
His mouth stills against mine as he focuses on the task, huffing out a, “Fucking thing,” as he tugs.
I can’t help but laugh at his frustration. Hamilton Bates, stumped by a bra. He’s diligent though, finally conquering it and tossing it on the floor. I can’t even stand the way he looks at my breasts. It’s the same as last time—hungry, dark-eyed want—and the sound he makes when he slides his hands up to cup them in his warm palms is low and vaguely agonized.
He dips his head to clamp his mouth around my breast, tongue lathing over the peaked nipple. I tilt my head back and he toys with my other breast, making lazy circles. The feel of it is indescribable, something bone-deep and vulnerable in the very best way igniting across my skin, in the pit of my core. I can’t restrain my responding moan.
The next thing I know, I’m under him, and he’s impatiently tugging off my panties, his own shorts following suit.
His body is a wide expanse of pale, lean perfection, and I can see his abs quaking with his need, the staccato of his breaths shaky and shallow as he rubs two rough hands up my flesh. Gone is the gentleness that took my virginity, replaced by this feral, commanding mess of desire. I pant into his mouth, feeling the same as I had that first night—slightly unhinged and strangely powerful.
“Fuck, I’ve been thinking about this for days, Adams,” he grinds out, breath hot against my ear. “I need to be inside you.”
“Yeah. Yes.” I buck my hips against his, encouraging, impatient, wanting his body to completely cover mine, wanting to feel his weight, his strength.
He kisses me while he rolls on the condom, his two hands crammed into the space between our bodies, breaths loud in the silence of the room.
When he’s ready, my fingers thread in the hair on the back of his neck, tugging him forward. It feels like I can’t let him get too far away, like even the thought of him stopping makes something sharp and alarmed go off in my head.
His gray eyes hold mine as I wrap my legs around his waist, inviting him closer, urging him on. He takes himself in hand, pressing his cock into my wet folds as he watches me, and if he’s waiting for something, then I’m at a loss for what.
“Come on,” I pant, fingers scrabbling at his shoulders, body arching. “Fuck me.”
He enters me swiftly, filling me with one solid thrust.
I gasp, mouth agape, time standing still as he stretches me from the inside. Our eyes hold, something that feels far more intimate than his body invading my own. I slide my hand to touch his cheek, his lips, and I rock my hips. His eyes snap shut on a groan and he starts moving inside of me, our hips meeting in teasing, assessing thrusts, looking for our shared rhythm.
“Jesus, Adams.” He pulls back only to crash back into me, our hips meeting with a soft clap that has me digging crescents into the skin of his back. “Fuck, you feel so good. I shouldn’t have—” he bites down on his bottom lip, a wet, rough sou
nd growling in the back of his throat, “—we shouldn’t have waited.”
I pull his face to mine and lean to the side, breathing hot, and biting down on his ear. “Is this all you’ve got?”
He shudders with delight, breathing a laugh into my neck, and his next thrust—full of his body’s skill and power—nearly pushes me up the bed.
“Ah, God,” I gasp, scrabbling at his back. “Like that.”
“Yeah?” he asks, adjusting his hands on the bed before driving into me hard. His eyes are wild and heavy, and it’s not like the last time. I have to hold on, now, tightening my legs around his hips as the force of his plunges pushes me into the bed. I keep alternating between the need to screw my eyes shut and chase that phantom peak of pleasure, and the desire to keep them open, watching him undo me.
The bed creaks, the old springs crying out with their movements. It’s loud, too loud, but I don’t care. My orgasm is fast approaching, toes curling with every crash of our hips, and he’s obviously too enthralled to stop. I don’t want him to stop. Now, or maybe ever.
Is this what it’s like with everyone? I wonder, but the wave that crashes over me answers that. It’s powerful enough to rob me of my breath, chest seizing on a gasp as I tighten around him, head digging back into the pillow. Hamilton makes a low, rough sound and doesn’t stop, his eyes drinking in every moment—every shudder and gasp—of my orgasm.
When the overwhelming tide of pleasure ebbs, I wrap my tired arms around him, panting as I watch him.
His face scrunches in something akin to pain—maybe even agony—before he buries it into my neck, his hips pounding away like he’s chasing first place. I have no idea how long he’ll go, how long he’ll last, and I don’t care. It could be all night. I could do this all night.
When his body tenses, and he shudders deep inside of me, the sound he pushes into my sweaty neck is so raw, so achingly real, that I’m already desperate to hear it again.
Hamilton collapses on top of me, weight heavy, our heartbeats racing. I run my hand through his damp hair, then use it to tug his head back. Familiar insecurities creep over me.
“Is that what you wanted?” I ask, wetting my dry lips. “Like, better than before?”
“Jesus, Adams,” he mumbles breathlessly against my chest. “Yes, that was better. That was…” He rolls his face against my chest, pushing a kiss into the swell of my breast. “That was the best, actually.”
Best.
The compliment makes me smile, even though that’s ridiculous. He could be lying. Maybe he says that to every girl he sleeps with. But it still makes my heart kick into rapid gear. It makes me want to fuck him all over again. But I don’t. I just lie back on the pillow with the weight of him on top of me, his arms wrapped around my body.
After many long moments spent breathing, my fingers playing through his hair, Hamilton sighs. “I’m definitely going to feel that tomorrow.” He shifts his shoulder.
I pause before dropping my hand. The skin of his shoulder is warm, soft, and he makes a low groan when I dig my fingers into it. “Is it joint, muscle, or tendon?”
His breath washes warmly over the center of my chest. “Tendon, they think.”
I keep massaging. “Does Janet know it’s this bad?”
Silence.
I frown. “You should tell her. You could get a cortisone shot, you know. Remember Bradbury, sophomore year? His was bad, but that helped.”
“You know what I remember about Bradbury?” Hamilton lifts himself and rolls to my side, my hand slipping from his shoulder. He looks up at the ceiling, expression slack and relaxed. “I remember coach sitting him out for half the season and he didn’t make his qualifiers. Barely any of the recruiters saw him swim and his chances at State were shit.”
“Well,” I roll to my side, watching him. “Bradbury was different. He couldn’t even bend his arm for most of that. You can still swim.”
“It’s a risk, though.” He rolls his head to the side, meeting my gaze. “Once I get a few meets under my belt this year, lure in enough recruiters, it’ll get better.” He says this like something well-practiced. Like a prayer.
I push a laugh into the pillow, chuckling harder at his questioning gaze. “Look at us. Your shoulder, my nose. We’re kind of a mess.”
His mouth pulls up into a grin. “It was worth it, though.”
“It was,” I agree, feeling more at ease than I have in a very long time.
“Whoa,” Micha says, once he gets out of the car. He’s staring right at my nose. “It looks even worse today. Are you using the concealer with the yellow undertones? Because it’ll neutralize those reds and blues under your eyes.”
“Hey,” I say, shooting him a glare. “Don’t forget who taught you about concealer in the first place, pal. The student has not surpassed the master.”
“Ignore him,” my sister says, linking her fingers with mine. “He’s an idiot. You look fine.”
My sister is sweet, but my brother is a truth-teller. I do look like crap, and it’s not even entirely because of my bruised nose. I woke up with a pounding headache, feeling like I’d been run over by a truck. Admittedly, I had been run over by a Hamilton Bates-sized truck, but it was more than that.
“Actually, I think I may be getting a cold or something.”
Michaela instantly, heartlessly, drops my hand. “You should go to the nurse.”
“It’s fine,” I assure her and refocus on my brother. “How’s show prep going?”
“It’s okay. We should be ready.” The performance takes place the Saturday after Thanksgiving. “It’s a lot of work, though.”
“You’re going to kill it.” I give him a fist-bump. “I know you will.”
The bell tower chimes, and we split up. Michaela is right, I probably should go to the nurse, but today is not the day to hide out. After last night with Hamilton, I don’t want anything to seem out of place. We’d met up intentionally. We’d had sex without it being sparked by an argument or fight, and that made it different. I didn’t want to behave differently—or to give him a reason to think I was behaving differently.
I sigh as I walk to class. Why is this so complicated?
Because you’re screwing your enemy, Gwen, that’s why, and you really, really like it.
I make my way down the hall, stopping as usual at my locker. There’s a white paper cup staring at me, waiting on top of my books. I look behind me to see anyone is watching. It’s a force of habit and paranoia, but no one is watching as I reach for the cup and feel the warm liquid through the side. I take a sip—it’s a mocha—and the drink warms me from the inside out. Well, I think it’s the drink. It may be from the realization that Hamilton Bates did something indisputably nice for me.
Laughter bounces off the crowded hall and I glance back in time to see him and his friends heading toward class. Reagan is glued to his side, and Heston’s still nursing his bruised jaw. Hamilton’s profile shifts slightly, angling toward me, and he winks—a blip—before following his friends into the classroom.
The two of us hate-screwing is one thing.
Hamilton being nice to me? Well, that’s something I’m not sure I can handle.
20
Hamilton
Leaning back, I position myself in Dr. Ross’ class so that I have a direct view of Gwendolyn. We’d parted quietly the night before, both of us sneaking back to our rooms. If I’d had it my way, I would have stayed all night and taken my time to explore her body, to feel myself inside of her once more. I was already halfway hard again by the time I left. After a bit of consideration, the main one being the nightmare that would happen if we were caught, I managed to get my brain to function better than my cock and forced myself to leave. Back in my own room, I had easily the best night’s sleep I’d had in a long time. I woke up early, refreshed for once, and called the coffee shop for a delivery, adding a drink for her. Before the rest of the school was moving, I slipped the mocha into her locker. A little post-booty call thank you.
/> See? I can be a goddamn gentleman, too.
Suck on that, Tyson.
She looked like hell when I saw her in the hall, eyes tired and nose probably a whole bevy of colors beneath whatever she’d caked over it to hide the bruise. But it worries me, because if any of her look is about what happened, that’s no fucking good. Not at all. Gwendolyn is scratching an itch I didn’t know I had, filling an ever-growing hole. If she has regrets? Second-thoughts? I don’t know what the hell I’ll do.
That concern is why I watch her now. Regret leads to guilt. Guilt to confession. A confession that will blow up my world. She seems oblivious to my presence, though, ignoring me so thoroughly that it was almost like last night never happened. Is that good? I don’t know. Her hand shakes a little when she takes a sip of her coffee and she rubs her eyes, despite the caffeine.
I remain focused as Dr. Ross hands out packets, one landing on my desk.
“Want to partner up?” Reagan asks, interrupting my thoughts. “Dr. Ross said we could.”
“What?” I snap, looking at the girl next to me. She’s leaning over the aisle, and I must have something bad for Gwen, because there was a time when Reagan’s flash of ample cleavage could draw my eyes like a magnet. Now, I barely glance.
She gives me a long, wary glare. “Never mind.” She turns to Rachel Eurbick and starts to work. I look around nervously. Did Reagan just turn her back on me? Holy shit, I need to get it together.
I force myself to focus on my work for the remainder of the period, only periodically checking on Gwendolyn. She works alone—no surprise—and just before the class is over, she gets up, turns in her paper to Dr. Ross, and quietly leaves the room.
Shit, shit, shit. I didn’t realize we could do that.
I quickly fill out the rest of my sheet, not giving a rat’s ass about accuracy, and stand to turn it in. If she can leave, so can I, but just as I grab my backpack, the bell rings. The class jolts up, blocking my access to the door. By the time I turn in my work and get into the hallway, she’s long gone, and I’m convinced more than ever that I’m screwed.
