“Forget all that,” he says, his words coarse and frustrated. “Making yourself come is the ultimate lesson in control. Relax. Trust your instincts. Do what feels good.”
His words send a shiver down my spine and heat between my legs, creating a burning itch too powerful not to scratch. My resolve, previously hardened and stiff, vanishes into thin air.
“Go.” He places his hands on my shoulders and escorts me to his door. His lips curl into the most mischievous smile I’ve ever seen. “I’ll be listening.”
I smack him across his smooth, solid chest and rush down the hall and into my room before anyone sees a thing.
***
My room is pitch dark.
And stuffy—because it’s too early in the year to turn on the air conditioning, and my father is cheap.
I’m buried under a mountain of light blankets, as if they could shield my sins from the outside world.
My fingers twitch. Anxious. Needy. They calculate their next move like criminals shielded by the cover of night.
That’s what this is—a crime. A crime so wrong, I deserve to be punished. If I go to hell, at least I know Jensen will be there to keep me company.
I don’t need my Harlequin paperback for this.
A deep breath passes through my half-parted lips and I brush my hand across my belly before slipping it under the elastic waistband of my pajama bottoms. It travels lower, possessed by a mind of its own, until it reaches the heat between my thighs.
I slip a finger between my folds. A zing of anticipation zips through my stomach. I close my eyes tight and I picture my stepbrother. His broad shoulders and warrior tattoos. His dark hair. His golden eyes. The outline of his erection hidden behind his towel.
I’m a dirty, dirty girl.
I’m going to hell.
Oh, my God. I’m going to hell.
I retrieve my fingers and open my eyes. Doing something so naughty makes me feel as if I’m being watched. They’re going to see it on my face tomorrow at breakfast.
They’ll know.
The ache between my legs intensifies. I’m pulsing down there as if it’s my body’s only way of luring me back into dangerous territory.
Good AUB girls don’t touch themselves. Good AUB girls save themselves for their husbands. Sex is not for pleasure. Sex is for creating families. I should be ignoring these urges. That’s the right thing to do.
I inhale in a full, sharp breath and close my eyes again, rolling to my stomach and slipping my hands under my pillow as if to pin them down.
Only the second my eyes are shut, all I can picture is Jensen.
He’s a thorn in my side.
He’s obnoxious and a know-it-all.
He’s annoyingly attractive.
And he commandeers my body, forcing foreign sensations throughout every inch of me every time he opens his smug mouth.
Cade… Cade makes my heart feel warm and happy. Cade gives me the butterflies. Cade makes me spend hours of valuable class time daydreaming about happily-ever-afters. Cade is the kind of guy you marry after graduating from college, the kind of guy who makes your parents proud. Or in my case, a poly version of Cade.
But Jensen? Jensen sends my nerves into overdrive. He heats my core, forces dirty thoughts into my mind, and flips all of my beliefs sideways, underneath, and in between the places they used to reside.
His words echo in my mind, right along with the words of my father. They align like two opposing views, rivaling for the big win, and contrasting. It’s almost as if my entire life, my father has taught me the sky is one shade of blue, and then Jensen comes along and tells me the sky can be whatever shade I want it to be.
Choices.
That’s the real issue here.
Jensen thinks I have no choice in regards to what I do with my body. I have to prove him wrong.
I’m wet. My panties are soaked.
But maybe he’s not wrong?
I’m an eighteen-year-old woman, and I’m afraid to pleasure myself because my entire life I’ve been told it’s wrong.
My nipples harden, becoming so sensitive that the mere sensation of the lining of my bra cups against them is painful.
Is it wrong?
Am I afraid to think for myself? Is that what’s happening?
I bury my face head down in my pillow and scrunch my face. The ache between my legs hasn’t subsided yet. If anything, it has deepened, becoming more pronounced than before. My right hand pulls from beneath the pillow and travels down the length of my side until it wedges beneath my hips. My fingers slip below my waistband once more.
The racing thoughts are gone.
The hemming and hawing is over.
My fingers work between my folds, pressing along the most sensitive part of me because that’s what feels best. I’m growing wetter with each massage. I press harder, rubbing until my face is twisted and all I feel is a buildup of pressure inside. My middle finger finds my entrance as my palm continues rubbing the rest of me with each stroke.
I rake my teeth over my bottom lip as I picture Jensen, imagining his body is weighing me down and we’re both tangled in a mess of white sheets and covered by the veil of night. I want to make a noise, but I have to be quiet. If Jensen were here, I imagine he’d cover my mouth with his strong hand.
One finger is suddenly not enough. I try two.
Much better.
My hips buck as the pressure mounts, but I’m not ready for it to end. It’s the greatest physical feeling I’ve ever felt in my entire life. My fingers press deeper inside me. Faster. Harder. The ache is painful almost, building and building until there’s nowhere else for it to go.
I think of Jensen again.
I think about his big, hard—
And then my body tingles, tightens, and quivers. My mind blanks. I’m pulsing below, hard and quick. My body contorts, and a wave of euphoria rushes over me from head to toe.
When the possessive exultation subsides, I’m as limp as a noodle, all my energy drained clean. My fingers still rest inside me, soaked and pruned from my aroused state.
I couldn’t move even if I wanted to.
My lips twist into a pleasured grin.
I did that. I chose to do that.
Me.
Who knew my body could do something so amazing?
Choice is a beautiful thing.
CHAPTER 9
JENSEN
“Missed you last night, Waverly.” Mark unfolds his newspaper at breakfast the next morning. His face is scrunched, scrutinizing his second oldest daughter as she eats her scrambled eggs in silence.
She’s been awfully quiet this morning, and I’ve opted to leave her alone. I think I pushed her too hard the night before, and I’ve still got five months left of living here. My end goal—graduating high school and moving to California—is way more important than convincing some prudish virgin to finger herself.
I stifle a laugh, my gaze snapping to Waverly. Her cheeks flush and she reaches for her juice. She won’t make eye contact with anyone.
Oh, my God. She totally did it.
I kick her leg under the table.
“Hey.” Bellamy shoots me a dirty look.
Oops.
“Sorry,” I mutter, lowering my head so she can’t see the shit-eating grin on my face.
“I was just tired last night,” Waverly says to her father. “Went up to my room and did some homework, and then I went to bed early.”
Fuck. She’s a terrible liar. Must be hard being habitually honest. She couldn’t tell a lie to save her life.
“Hm.” Mark is studying her like a book. Wonder what he’d think if he knew his precious, virginal daughter, the apple of his eye, his pride and joy, fingered herself last night while she thought of her new stepbrother? “Went looking for you. You weren’t in your room after dinner last night.”
“I did some laundry,” she says, shrugging a shoulder.
“Oh, Mark, did I tell you? The HVAC technician is coming today around
ten to tune up my furnace,” Summer interrupts.
Mark mumbles something to her, but his gaze is still transfixed on his red-faced, fidgeting daughter.
The man is not stupid. He’s not naïve or blind to a damn thing that goes on under his three roofs. I know this because any man who uses religion as a weapon or a manipulative tool is a freaking mastermind. What man could convince three women to marry him, have his babies, grow their hair long so they can wash his feet with it in Heaven, serve and satisfy him, and make them feel like they’re the ones benefitting from this arrangement?
Waverly pushes her chair out from the table and takes her dish to the sink. She grabs her backpack and slinks it over her shoulder.
“Leaving early?” Bellamy asks.
Their mom, Jane, surveys in silence. She has “opinionated” written all over her face, but she seems to keep them all to herself—at least whenever I’m around.
Waverly glances at the clock on the wall. Her face reads like she’s trying to come up with an excuse, but she’s so flustered nothing’s coming together in time. “Yep. Leaving early.”
She’s gone.
Just like that.
I shovel the rest of my breakfast in my mouth and stand to leave, keeping my dirty dishes on the table because I don’t feel like being yelled at for not letting the women clean up after me.
House rules are house rules.
I grab my jacket and keys and run outside. Waverly’s sitting in her car, letting it warm up, and messing with her radio. I rap on her window, grinning as she jumps up in her seat.
She rolls her window down. “What?”
“So…” I’ve got a smile a mile wide. “You did it.”
She shifts her car into drive, and it lurches until she puts her foot on the break. She’s staring ahead now, opting not to make eye contact with me a second longer than she has to.
“You’re glowing.” I rest an elbow on the inside of her window.
“Stop.” She rolls her eyes.
“Stop what?”
“Gloating. You’re acting like you… like you made me… like you gave me the…” She can’t say it.
It’s probably not a word in her vocabulary, so I’ll say it for her. “Orgasm.”
Her face whips toward mine, freshly-washed, sandy hair spilling down her shoulders.
“You can say it, Waverly. Or-gas-m.” I smirk. “And I kind of did give it to you. I mean, not literally. You did all the work. I can’t take any credit for that.”
I glance up toward the main house to find Mark standing in the living room window, casting a hard stare our way. His mouth forms a hard line. I smack the top of Waverly’s car and tell her to get going, giving Mark a friendly wave and a thumb’s up. He doesn’t return anything other than a stone cold stare. If he asks later, and I’m sure he will, I was just checking on her. Making sure she was okay. Just being a good stepbrother.
It’s not a lie.
I do care about her, in my own little way. I think beneath her stuffy exterior and Miss Priss attitude, she’s a good person. I think we’d be friends if the conditions were favorable.
“See you in Chem,” I say as she pulls away.
***
I’m stopped outside my classroom by Claire Fahnlander.
“Jensen, hey.” She twirls her hair around her finger and leans against a red locker. “I know you’re new in town. I’m having some people over this weekend, like, for a senior party. My parents are going to be out of town, so I’ll have the whole place to myself. You should stop by. You know, if you’re bored or whatever.”
She bats her lashes. She’s the kind of girl who knows she’s pretty—the kind who skirts through life on her good looks and manipulative charm. She’s the type you could spend a drunk and rebellious teenage weekend with and not think twice about her again because underneath her fuck-me façade, there’s nothing at all.
I glance into the classroom to find Waverly watching. Her eyes veer away the second she’s caught.
Claire turns to see what I’m looking at and then rolls her eyes. “Ugh, Waverly Miller. Total wannabe.”
“Really?” I scratch the space above my brow. “She doesn’t seem like that to me. A little uptight, maybe. A little tightly wound.”
I can’t imagine Waverly wanting to have anything to do with Claire or her posse of mean girls. There’s a group of bitches like that in every school across North America.
“Trust me. She’s annoying.” Claire folds her arms. Her mouth twists into a devious grin. “Anyway, about this weekend, you should come by around—”
I don’t say another word. I simply walk away.
“Hey.” I pull out the chair next to Waverly, leaning in and nudging her arm. “What’s up?”
“I didn’t know we were friends now.” She flips her notebook open and clicks her pen, staring straight ahead at the dry erase board in the front of the class where Mrs. Davenport is writing and erasing something.
“Are you cool with what happened last night?” I whisper. I hold my breath, anticipating her answer. She’s clearly bent on making me wait.
Is she punishing me? If so, I did nothing wrong. I planted a seed. She chose to water it.
I snicker as she scribbles today’s date on the corner of her paper and throws her pen down. “Yes, Jensen. I’m fine.”
I don’t believe her.
The eight a.m. bell rings and Mrs. Davenport takes attendance. Claire Fahnlander watches us from the corner of her eye. I swear she’s plotting all the ways she thinks she’s going to make me hers.
She’s in for a world of disappointment if she thinks I view her as anything other than a piece of ass, and even then, I have no intention of fucking around with that. She’s probably been with half the school, or at least anyone with a football jersey and a half-smile.
“You’re different now,” I whisper to Waverly. She stares straight ahead at the white board.
“Can’t get anything past you, huh.” Her voice is hardly audible.
“So you did it. I know that much,” I cross my arms and sit back in the chair, not even attempting to fight the grin consuming my lips. I lean over to her, whispering into her ear, “But the biggest question is, were you thinking of me when you came?”
Waverly jolts and pushes her chair back, causing a metallic grinding noise to beckon all eyes our way. Mrs. Davenport stops yammering about reactants and holds her marker in the air. She scans the classroom and spins around, resuming her lecture with an air of annoyance in her tone.
There’s nothing I enjoy more than watching a girl squirm from the heat of my stare. She was a delicate flower when I met her a few days ago. Now she’s blossoming right before my eyes.
Quiz sheets are passed to us and the teacher rains silence upon the classroom and mutters something about an hour.
An hour to take a quiz? I flip the sheet over. It’s thirty questions. I hate when teachers give way too much time for these. She probably wants some quiet time so she can do a little online shopping or Facebook browsing during work time. No one needs a whole fucking hour to take a thirty-question quiz.
That’s an hour of sitting here with my quiz finished and being unable to breathe a single word to Waverly. As pleased as I am that she touched herself last night, I want to make sure she’s okay. I’m not a complete asshole.
She finishes her test after fifteen silent minutes and turns it in before coming back to her spot and pulling a book out from her bag. I squint to see what she’s reading. Jane Austen. How classy. Of course she wouldn’t read anything modern. I doubt Mark Miller allows his precious daughter to be exposed to modern-day romance and all its oversexed dialogue.
I turn my quiz in and take my sketchpad from my bag along with a carbon pencil. Observing my surroundings, I’m left with minimal options. I can either draw a picture of the radiator to my left, the back of Claire Fahnlander’s narrow head, or Waverly reading. I opt for the latter.
Leaning back in my seat, I rest my pad across my lap, ma
king broad strokes and creating the outline of her book’s profile. Her hair spills down the side of her face, covering all but the silhouette of her pointy nose and her dark lashes that curl up at the ends. There isn’t a speck of makeup on her face, but she doesn’t need it. The fluorescent light isn’t ideal, and the shadows it casts on her aren’t the most flattering, but none of it matters. She’s still fucking stunning.
Ten minutes pass and I’m almost done with the outline. I begin shading, finding myself in the early stages of getting lost and forgetting where I am. I don’t feel like I’m sitting in Chem class drawing my tragically pure stepsister. My mind is blank as I grip the pencil. I use my fingertips to smudge certain areas just a little. My hands will be gray by the time I’m done, but I don’t care.
That’s the beauty of art—it transports me. It makes me forget. There aren’t a lot of things I can lose myself in, but this is one of them. When I draw, I’m not an arrogant bastard. I’m not Jensen Mackey, son of Josiah. I’m not a hundred shades of fucked up in the head.
I’m just me.
Waverly shuts her book and pulls in a deep sigh as if she’s just read a beautiful passage and needs to let it marinate for a bit before she can move on. I know that feeling. I get that way after I draw something I never knew I was capable of drawing.
She turns to me demurely, her eyes falling on my paper and then narrowing as she realizes the girl on the paper is her. “You drew me?”
I shrug. “You were convenient.”
She pulls the sketchpad from my lap and inspects the grayscale drawing. Her eyes soften a bit and she fights a smile, not unlike the first time Juliette found my drawings for the first time.
“You do these?” Juliette asked, flipping through the pages of my sketchpad. Women. Nothing but beautiful women.
I was sixteen.
Playboys were contraband in my house and the vast majority of websites were adult-filtered on our family computer—I had to use my imagination. I held my breath until she came to the drawing I’d done of her from memory: a sketch of her seated at the family breakfast table when her peach satin robe had come untied, gaping open in the front to reveal her ample cleavage as it peeked out from the top of her matching teddy.
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