that?”
“Me.”
My words are a challenge—a dare, perhaps. I’m playing with fire, and I’m two seconds from being burned, but I don’t care. My body braces itself, fully expecting him to declare I’m wrong—to take my lips and to slide his hands all over my body in places no one else has ever been. My mind would fight it like hell, but my body would surrender. And maybe then it wouldn’t entirely be my fault, not if he forces himself on me.
Only he does none of that.
“You’re right, Waverly. I don’t have any control over you.”
My jaw slackens. He’s screwing with me. Playing mind games. I’m not sure what his end goal is, but I’m not going to keep feeding into it, and I’m certainly not going to stick around to find out.
“I’m leaving.” I pull away from him and push past, our shoulders grazing as I make a beeline for the door.
But he grabs the crook of my elbow, stopping me in my tracks. He forces me against the wall and invades my space all over again. Without warning he leans down, his lips nearly brushing mine. I receive their warmth but not their pressure. We’re separated by no more than a single, dangerous millimeter.
“If you want me, Waverly—and I kind of think you do,” he whispers, “—you can have me. The choice is yours. You get to decide.”
A long, slow breath drags past my lips. I’d close my eyes, but I’m hypnotized by the intensity of his champagne stare.
“But if you kiss me,” he continues, “I won’t be held responsible for what happens after that. I might be the best thing that ever happens to you. I might destroy you. I might make you feel all kinds of terrifying things. You might hate me when we’re done. You might fall in love with me. I’m not promising you a damn thing except you’ll be a better person when you come out the other side.”
With that, he’s gone, leaving a gush of cool air where his body had been. My hands tremble. I’m swallowing breaths as if I’d been drowning. Minutes blur together until I gather my composure and peek out to the hallway.
He’s gone.
He meant what he said.
The choice is mine.
And I choose…
CHAPTER 7
What the fuck am I doing?
I’m standing naked, taking a cold shower because it’s the only thing that can remedy the burden between my legs.
I crossed the line with Waverly. I meant to provoke her. I meant to make her think. Instead I took it a step too far.
That soft, fuckable, virgin mouth.
Those big, clear blue eyes.
Her long, sandy hair that cascades down those grip-able shoulders and grazes the top of her cleavage.
Sigh .
She’s a good girl.
I need to leave her alone, because at the end of the day, she’s not my problem. In a few short months I’ll be out of here, and I won’t think about her twice.
I need to let her grow up with her back-assward belief system. Let her wear her purity ring and sacred temple garments and be married off as the fifth or sixth wife to some fifty-year-old bastard that Mark will inevitably set her up with.
I pound my fist into the acrylic of the shower, followed by my forehead.
She’s not my fucking problem.
But this whole world she lives in is nothing but abuse.
Watching Bellamy and Waverly being raised to believe their worth is boiled down to sharing a husband with a group of other brainwashed women, birthing as many babies as their bodies can handle, and cooking and cleaning infuriates me.
Especially when it’s tied into religion, as if God wants them to be second-fucking-class citizens.
I slap a fistful of shampoo into my hair and lather. Hard. My fingers dig into my scalp.
“You’re never going to be good enough for one of those girls,” my father would say after church whenever he caught me checking out the deacon’s daughters. “Don’t even try. They need real men are the ones who make their fathers proud. Not some promiscuous pencil-dick like you.”
Religion and modern-day human sexuality are a dangerous mix. I told that
“Me.”
My words are a challenge—a dare, perhaps. I’m playing with fire, and I’m two seconds from being burned, but I don’t care. My body braces itself, fully expecting him to declare I’m wrong—to take my lips and to slide his hands all over my body in places no one else has ever been. My mind would fight it like hell, but my body would surrender. And maybe then it wouldn’t entirely be my fault, not if he forces himself on me.
Only he does none of that.
“You’re right, Waverly. I don’t have any control over you.”
My jaw slackens. He’s screwing with me. Playing mind games. I’m not sure what his end goal is, but I’m not going to keep feeding into it, and I’m certainly not going to stick around to find out.
“I’m leaving.” I pull away from him and push past, our shoulders grazing as I make a beeline for the door.
But he grabs the crook of my elbow, stopping me in my tracks. He forces me against the wall and invades my space all over again. Without warning he leans down, his lips nearly brushing mine. I receive their warmth but not their pressure. We’re separated by no more than a single, dangerous millimeter.
“If you want me, Waverly—and I kind of think you do,” he whispers, “—you can have me. The choice is yours. You get to decide.”
A long, slow breath drags past my lips. I’d close my eyes, but I’m hypnotized by the intensity of his champagne stare.
“But if you kiss me,” he continues, “I won’t be held responsible for what happens after that. I might be the best thing that ever happens to you. I might destroy you. I might make you feel all kinds of terrifying things. You might hate me when we’re done. You might fall in love with me. I’m not promising you a damn thing except you’ll be a better person when you come out the other side.”
With that, he’s gone, leaving a gush of cool air where his body had been. My hands tremble. I’m swallowing breaths as if I’d been drowning. Minutes blur together until I gather my composure and peek out to the hallway.
He’s gone.
He meant what he said.
The choice is mine.
And I choose…
CHAPTER 7
What the fuck am I doing?
I’m standing naked, taking a cold shower because it’s the only thing that can remedy the burden between my legs.
I crossed the line with Waverly. I meant to provoke her. I meant to make her think. Instead I took it a step too far.
That soft, fuckable, virgin mouth.
Those big, clear blue eyes.
Her long, sandy hair that cascades down those grip-able shoulders and grazes the top of her cleavage.
Sigh .
She’s a good girl.
I need to leave her alone, because at the end of the day, she’s not my problem. In a few short months I’ll be out of here, and I won’t think about her twice.
I need to let her grow up with her back-assward belief system. Let her wear her purity ring and sacred temple garments and be married off as the fifth or sixth wife to some fifty-year-old bastard that Mark will inevitably set her up with.
I pound my fist into the acrylic of the shower, followed by my forehead.
She’s not my fucking problem.
But this whole world she lives in is nothing but abuse.
Watching Bellamy and Waverly being raised to believe their worth is boiled down to sharing a husband with a group of other brainwashed women, birthing as many babies as their bodies can handle, and cooking and cleaning infuriates me.
Especially when it’s tied into religion, as if God wants them to be second-fucking-class citizens.
I slap a fistful of shampoo into my hair and lather. Hard. My fingers dig into my scalp.
“You’re never going to be good enough for one of those girls,” my father would say after church whenever he caught me checking out the deacon’s daughters. “Don’t even try. They need real men are the ones who make their fathers proud. Not some promiscuous pencil-dick like you.”
Religion and modern-day human sexuality are a dangerous mix. I told that
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