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It's just a screw, right? No big deal.
Except I can't get her out of my head.
It should be one for the record books. I should Brighton Bingo that shit and rub it in the face of each one of those dumb jocks: I bagged Katherine Harrison and, even better, punched her v-card. But I don't say anything.
With all the pre-graduation stuff going on, it's easy to be busy, but even so, I swear she's laying low, avoiding me. And I avoid her right back. Hit it and quit it, that's my philosophy. What I'm thinking about the whole time is how I really just need to bang some other girl to erase the memory of Kate. Wipe the slate clean.
But I don't. It just festers, eating at me like some kind of disease.
The only reason I show up here with my mother at all is because I just can't help myself. I have this perverse need to see the look on Katherine's face when she sees me.
It's worth the effort. Katherine just looks so. . . . pissed off when she sees me. She looks at me like I'm pond scum. But I can't stop thinking about fucking her.
I'm through a second cigarette by the time I'm finished stewing over Katherine, and I'm about to light up a third when a voice from the sidewalk makes me look up.
"Hey Caulter!" The man in wrinkled cargo pants, messenger bag lying on the sidewalk at his feet, brings the camera to his face and clicks.
I light my cigarette and take a drag on it as he continues to click away, before I give him the finger. I make a point of standing there unmoving, flipping him off, while I take one more drag, put it out, and grind the butt of it into Senator fucking Harrison's perfectly manicured lawn.
The paparazzi are parasites.
I guess the cat is out of the bag -- well, not the real secret, the one Katherine's so terrified I'm going to spill. As if I want everyone knowing anyway.
I go back in the house, momentarily considering the fact that I don't have to do this whole summer thing. I could say fuck it, and blow the whole thing off.
Of course, my trust fund is in jeopardy. So I make the deal with my mother. It's like that guy, Faust, the one who sells his soul to the devil. Ella made me an offer I couldn't refuse. So I'm going to play along, join my new family for the summer.
Besides, how can I resist the thought of getting under Katherine's skin all summer long?
I run my fingers down his chest, tracing the ridge between his pectoral muscles and down over his nipple. He makes this sound like something you'd hear from an animal, deep and low in his throat, and the hair on the back of my neck stands up. It's primal, like he's a predator and I'm the prey. Except that he's the one lying on his back, and I'm the one straddling him, my knees on either side of his body. His cock is bare, warm between my legs, and when I push down on his shaft, he groans my name.
"Kate. "
He repeats the word again, and I don't wait for him to say it a third time. I just guide him inside, aided by my wetness. I savor the feeling of his thickness filling me up. Riding him, skin to skin, his cock bare inside me, I fuck him. It feels familiar, like I've done this a million times before. But it's a thousand times better now than it was the first time.
His hands slide up the sides of my waist to my chest, and he palms my breasts, his thumbs grazing my hard nipples. I begin to let go, abandoning myself to the sensation of being with him, riding him as he brings me higher and higher.
I'm so close, and he grabs my waist tighter, his hands pushing me down hard on his cock, his thrusts shorter and more frequent.
"Kate," he says. "I want you to fucking come on me. " I'm on the edge, so close, about to crash over.
I jolt upright in bed, the pounding in my chest mimicking the throbbing between my legs. A sex dream about Caulter? It's like my brain is practicing mutiny. My nipples press against the fabric of my bra. Shit, I'm wearing a bra. And my jeans and t-shirt from yesterday. My mouth tastes like crap.
Silver morning sunlight streams through the bedroom window, and I can't believe I've slept through the night. The last thing I remember is putting my head down on the pillow so I could just close my eyes for a moment, figuring it was only a matter of time until my father came upstairs to have some kind of chat about the engagement. I can't believe they let me sleep.
I slide out of bed, wincing at the cotton mouth I've developed, and pad lightly down the hallway to the bathroom. I feel like I'm doing the walk of shame or something, still dressed in my clothes from the night before, and I'm immediately reminded of that night with Caulter.
As if my brain needs another reminder. The sex dream has me on edge; I can't quite tell if I'm irritated or horny.