by Harper James
Sebastian thrusts deep into me, and then freezes, one hand gripping my hair and the other on my right ass cheek. He grinds into me and comes hard, so hard I feel the pulse through the condom. It gets me the rest of the way there, knowing I’ve done this for him; I exhale and come one last time, crying out softly as sweet, gentle release washes over me. I collapse to the bed and Sebastian follows, barely stopping himself from falling directly on top of me; his cock slides from me and he rolls off to one side, immediately grabbing me and pulling me against him.
“You’re perfect, you know,” he says breathlessly. I tuck my head against his chest, inhaling the scent of him, still shaking, wet, sweating, primal, hungry for his body. “How much more can you take?”
“What?”
“How many more times do you think I can fuck you tonight, Ashlynn?” he asks, catching his breath.
I bite my lip. My pussy aches— I’m going to be sore tomorrow. But…that’s tomorrow. Tonight?
Tonight, I’ve got another round in me, at least. I meet his eyes, then allow him to swing my leg over top of him, and bring me down to ride his still-hard cock.
11
Twice more— that was the answer. I could handle being fucked by Sebastian Slate two more times before my body begged for mercy, and I collapsed into a sleepy stupor on the bed. Sebastian cleaned me up, then himself, then pulled me up against him in a way so delicate that it feels impossible that this was the same man who practically pounded himself into me earlier. I find myself wary to let myself cuddle so close to him; when we were having sex, everything felt so direct and erotic and unabashed. Now that we’re both exhausted, though, and the first hints of dawn are showing through the blinds, it all feels very…intimate. It throws me.
It doesn’t, however, seem to throw Sebastian. He holds me against him like we’ve known each other for years— hell, like we know each other, period. I wonder if this is just how he is, or if he really does think I’m as great as he said I was while we were in bed together. He doesn’t know who I am, of course— who I am in relation to the woman who his father is suspected of killing. I suspect he wouldn’t think I’m nearly so great if he did, no matter how good our sex is.
And, just like that, I feel badly again. I just let Sebastian Slate do wild, insane things to me, and begged for more the entire time. What’s wrong with me? After what Dennis Slate did to my family…
“Are you cold?” Sebastian asks when I press tighter to him.
“Hm? Oh— a little,” I lie, uninteresting in admitting that I was huddling closer for comfort, of all things.
Sebastian reaches down and pulls more of the blanket up and over my body. Even though it wasn’t warmth I was after, it does seem to help, and I take a long, steadying breath. I need to tell him who I am. He should know— and frankly, I want him to know. He ought to know that I’m part of the family his father ruined, that there are real, personal stakes involved with his father’s trial. I’m not entirely sure how to open this box, though, so I clumsily start with, “I’m pre-law.”
“I know,” Sebastian says.
“Really?”
“I make it a point to learn about people who interest me,” Sebastian says with a tone of amusement.
I pause, wary. “What else do you know?”
Sebastian takes a deep breath. “Let’s see— pre-law, from Alabama, freshman, lover of studying in the library, member of the student advocacy group, former marching band member. That’s all I’ve got so far from my sources.”
“That’s it?”
Sebastian cranes his head down to look at me. “Is there something else I should know?” he asks. “Because I had my guys look into any old boyfriends back in Alabama, and they didn’t find anything.”
I laugh in a somewhat unladylike way. “Your guys?”
“My guys,” Sebastian says, and takes hold of my waist, pulling me closer. “If there is an old boyfriend, you know that I’m not giving you back to him, right?”
I roll my eyes at this statement, but there’s a sparkle in Sebastian’s gaze that makes me know he’s simultaneously joking and serious— he isn’t interested in sharing me, but he knows I’m not a gift to be given back and forth either. And…and he feels like I’m his. Like he’s mine. There’s something possessive and connected in his gaze, a look no guy has ever laid upon me.
“What about you? What’s your major, other than football?” I ask, feeling my willpower crumble underneath his gaze. He makes me want to give in, to kiss him, to stretch my body out so he can see it all.
“Education,” Sebastian says. “So if I blow a knee or something, I can still coach high school ball.”
“So it’s football in the end, no matter what?”
“No matter what,” Sebastian says. “If you knew my family, you’d understand. It’s been football no matter what since my brothers and I were kids. They all play ball too— Conor and Tyson—“
“…are quarterbacks at their colleges. I’m not totally clueless,” I say, prodding him. “Or at least, my roommates aren’t. They told me.”
Sebastian slides his hands down my back and under my ass, then spanks me playfully. “See? You have guys doing recon on me too. What else do you know about me, Ashlyn?”
“Only a little,” I say. I lie. That was a lie— you know way more than a little, I think to myself, but his hands feel so nice on me that I can’t bring myself to correct my words.
“Such as…” Sebastian says.
“Uh—“ What do I say? This is my chance, the perfect moment to tell him who I am, the “in” I needed—
“Ah, there it is,” Sebastian says, voice falling. “So you do know the rumors about my father, don’t you?” His voice is both serious and disappointed— though I’m not sure if he’s disappointed I know about Dennis Slate, or that I didn’t tell him directly.
“Yes,” I admit. “I know the…rumors.” They’re hardly rumors. They’re facts. I can feel the courage to say this brewing in me, but Sebastian releases me at that exact moment. Cold sweeps into the spots where his skin was pressed to mine, and I clamber back toward him. He’s stiffened, though, and doesn’t take me into his arms.
“Well, go ahead. Ask me. Ask me if he did it. If he killed that woman, if he’s evil, if I ever met her…go for it,” he says with a long exhale. His voice is so flat, and his face has gone still and papery. He expects me to ask. He’s ready. He’s prepared. And of course he is— I’ve been there. I had so many routines down for when people asked me about my aunt, a series of quotes and lines that kept my heart safe while giving them the gossip they craved. Yes, I hope he’s caught too. Yes, I am angry. Yes, I do wonder why she was with him. Sure, I think she’s in a better place now.
It never occurred to me that someone on the Slate side of things might have the same lines ready to go. I always figured they wanted to shout about their father’s supposed innocence from the rooftops— but it’s clear that Sebastian wants anything but. When I’m silent for a few moments, he turns and looks at me expectantly.
“I don’t want to ask anything,” I say. It’s true. I don’t want to. I know I should— I know I need to ask, and tell, and admit who I am and who he is and how I think his father is an actual monster and how I want justice for my aunt. But I don’t want to, not at all.
“Everyone wants to ask,” Sebastian argues, shaking his head lightly against the pillow it’s resting on. “Everyone wants to know why I think he’s innocent.”
I close my eyes and fight to avoid cringing. Why I think he’s innocent. I could fight back with the thousand reasons I know Dennis Slate is guilty. But instead, I say, “I’m not with your father. I’m with you. And honestly, I’d rather pretend all that stuff with your family just doesn’t exist.” It’s perhaps the most truthful thing I’ve said all night.
Sebastian smiles a little, but then looks sad. “Yeah, me too.”
“Well. I can pretend if you can,” I say, and try again to cuddle up to him. This time, he allows it, and wrap
s his arms around me.
“I can. I’d love to, actually,” he says, then lowers his head and kisses me. It isn’t passionate, or deep, or arousing— it’s gentle, and grateful, and the kind of kiss you give someone who you plan on kissing a million more times.
So I kiss him back the same way.
12
Sebastian takes me out to breakfast— well, lunch, actually, since we’ve spent most of the night awake and most of the morning sleeping it off. I’m incredibly sore from him, relegated to taking tiny steps down the brick-paved streets. It obviously pleases Sebastian, once he realizes I’m not in serious pain; he walks alongside me slowly, arm slung around me, ignoring the points and stares that we get over the fact that Sebastian Slate is clearly with freshman girl who isn’t even especially busty or especially blonde.
“I don’t really care what they think,” Sebastian says, shrugging over the plate of pancakes in front of him. There’s enough food there to feed a medium sized army. Even if I were the kind of girl who worried about eating in front of guys, I don’t think I’d have any qualms about downing a few carbs in front of this eating machine.
“Seriously? I’m a freshman. Like, a true freshman,” I say, taking a bite.
He shrugs again. “People will always find something to judge me for. To judge anyone for. I don’t care that you’re a freshman.”
“I literally can’t even legally drink.”
“That just makes you a cheap date,” he says, and nudges me under the table as I roll my eyes at him. “Do you want to go get clothes at your place after this?”
“Like, change clothes?”
“Get clothes,” he says, shaking his head. “So you can stay with me again tonight.”
“You are actually trying to kill me, aren’t you?” I say with a laugh, before realizing what I’ve just said. My aunt flashes into my mind, and I look down at my food as guilt swims through me.
If Sebastian connected my words to his father in any way, it doesn’t show, because he just makes a satisfied growl deep in his throat, and says, “I’m actually just unable to take my hands off you for long, Ashlynn. Besides, if you’re still sore, I’m sure I can find something else you’ll enjoy that doesn’t involve my cock in your pussy.”
I flush that he just said something like that in a public place— what if someone heard him? But when I look up at him, I can see that Sebastian isn’t worried. In fact, Sebastian is already planning on how he’ll undress me, from the looks of the gleam in his eye. I shake my head at him admonishingly, but the truth is, all it took was that look from him and I’m also wondering how he’ll undress me…
Sebastian pays for our meal and we wander off, walking casually through the downtown area rather than heading straight back to his car. Saturdays are always sleepy and beautiful and bright; the scent of spilled beer from last night’s partying is everywhere, but so is the scent of freshly baked bread, warm coffee, and the peppery scent of cleaner. People are out and about, eager to spend the day doing something other than studying— which is how I’d likely be spending my day if I weren’t leaned up against Sebastian. We make our way to the park and sit down on a bench. I’m not usually a PDA person, but when Sebastian pulls my legs up onto the bench and encourages my head onto his lap, I don’t fight it. It’s nice, the smell of him, the feeling of him beneath my head. My eyes begin to drift shut to the sound of idle chatter and birds chirping; when Sebastian begins to stroke my hair, I’m done for, and sleep comes at me quickly.
I don’t hear Sebastian’s phone ring— I just wake up to his voice. He’s talking quickly, almost worriedly, and grimaces when he sees he’s woken me. He tries to convinced me to lay back down (via a series of gestures and wanting looks), but it’s no use— I’m up, and I can tell something serious is happening.
“Just put him on the phone. Stop panicking,” he says calmly. Except I know it isn’t really calm— because even though the tone and cadence is the same as his calm voice, there’s a kind of panic in his eyes that is new to me and, frankly, a bit frightening.
“Ok, good, good,” Sebastian says with a deep, full-bodied breath. “Hey, Dad? Mom says you’re saying some stuff that scares her.”
My blood freezes. Dad. He’s talking to his dad. The man who murdered my aunt is on the end of that phone line, and I’m holding Sebastian’s hand, so it’s like I’m connected to Dennis Slate and oh my god— I pull my hand away, justifying the move by brushing my hair behind my ears and picking at my cuticles.
“I know it’s intense, but Dad, you can’t talk about hurting yourself in front of mom. You shouldn’t talk about hurting yourself, period. We’re going to get through this.”
Breathe. I need to breathe. Dennis Slate isn’t really here. And Sebastian isn’t Dennis. Sebastian and I are pretending, after all, like the entire murder never happened. Like we’re fine. Like everything is fine—
“Because you’re innocent, Dad. I know that. Everyone knows that. You’re not going to jail, because innocent people don’t go to jail— or they shouldn’t, anyway. No, no, you won’t. Because you just won’t!” Sebastian’s voice is growing more frantic, though he keeps it steady enough that passersby don’t seem to notice the tenor of the conversation.
I feel sick. Sebastian might be right— hell, he probably is right. His father won’t go to jail. The man who killed my aunt will just get to live the rest of his life, will get to meet people and eat waffles and go to weddings and meet grandkids and meanwhile, my aunt will stay dead, all because of him. Because she was having an affair with Dennis Slate, and was going to tell Dennis’s wife. Something that, in the end, the wife learned about anyway— which means he killed my aunt for nothing at all. She died for nothing, and he might very well never see the inside of a jail cell again, and from the sounds of it, that’s exactly what Sebastian wants—
“That was the situation which shall not be named,” Sebastian says, and rises. “I need to get in touch with my brothers. I think I should drop you off at your place—“
“No, no, it’s fine. I mean, it’s…” It’s far from fine, but I don’t know how to explain that right now. “Look, honestly, maybe this is for the best.”
“What?” Sebastian says, looking stunned. He’s midway through offering me his arm, presumably so we can hurry off to his car.
“I should have told you last night,” I say, biting my lip, hands shaking, eyes wobbling, I have to do it, I have to tell him—
“What?” he asks again, lowering his hand, eyes going cool.
I dig deep for the need to say it, for the need to tell him who my aunt is. I need to say it, even though it’ll hurt him. Even though if I say it out loud, I’ll more or less be saying that I think his father is a murderer and deserves to be in jail. That his father— who, rightly or wrongly, Sebastian is clearly worried about— is a monster. My words will hurt Sebastian, because for whatever reason, he cares about me. He wants me.
And I told him we could pretend. I convinced him to hold me again, to trust me, and I’m going to shatter that if I tell him the truth now.
“I should have told you that the project I’m working on with the student advocacy group is all about ending New Recruits Week,” I say, opting to chicken out and only tell part of the truth. “That’s how I got into the party last night, even— another girl in my group hooked me up with Juliet. I was literally only there to spy on football players and report back.”
Sebastian looks alarmed, but not angry— more like he can’t understand why this is coming out now, of all times, or why it’s making me tear up and shake and quiver. He opens his mouth, but I cut him off. “My point is, this is all just a huge conflict of interest. So we should go ahead and end things now before we get too…you know. Attached.”
“Too attached?” Sebastian says— almost growls. “It’s way too late for that, Ashlynn.”
I take a step back and wrap my arms around my waist, like I’m protecting myself. “More attached, then. We should stop before we get more att
ached. Look, you need to go talk to your brothers— I need to go. It was…nice. It was great, okay? But we can’t do this.”
“Ashlynn—“ he starts, taking a strong step toward me. I prance away, and then keep going— walking, then jogging off as quickly as I can without drawing attention. The tears really start flowing as soon as he’s out of my line of sight. What was I thinking, being with him? Not the sex, even— the being. Getting a meal with him. Falling asleep on his lap. Letting him stroke my hair like that. What the hell was wrong with me?
Except, the more I cry, and move away from the Sebastian, the less certain I am what exactly I’m crying over: That I fell for a Slate boy, or that I walked away from one.
13
I muddle through the rest of the weekend, the week that follows, the next weekend…but it feels like I’m in a play about my life rather than actually living it. My lines are right, my smile perfect, my schoolwork flawless, but it’s all just acting and props. I miss Sebastian, then I feel weird about missing Sebastian, then I feel stupid for feeling weird about it, repeat, do it all while smiling and telling Sarah that yes, I got so much good dirt on the team for the New Recruits Week project, thank you!
It’s Wednesday before I crack and call the one person who can always talk me off an emotional ledge: My mom. I know it’s not particularly cool to call your mom for advice on guys, but my mom and I are pretty close. She was actually the one to suggest I not call her quite so much as I did the first few weeks of college, since I needed to spread my wings and meet new people. That’s right, folks: I was the one with empty nest syndrome.
