Then, I jerk myself out of my sudden trance, and lock eyes with the pimply teenage boy whose dick is in Bailey’s mouth.
“Fuck!” he yells.
“What the fuck?!” I hiss again, sparks flying from my eyes.
Bailey yells something, too, but for the moment, she’s not my concern. Overcome with emotion — wrath? possessiveness? — I fling the pizza box to the floor, my entire body vibrating. Out of the corner of my eye, I see Bailey rise to her feet and run out of the room. My attention is still on the boy, who is now attempting to cover his dick with a couch pillow. It’s small. Even a quick glance tells me that he’s not much bigger than a pencil.
“Out!” I bellow, running to the couch and nearly tackling the kid, who screams shrilly.
“Don’t hurt him!” Bailey, now wrapped in a blanket, shouts from the doorway. I ignore her. I’ll deal with her later. Right now, I’ll fatally injure this punk if I damn well please.
The kid squirms underneath me, still yelling, and I barely resist the urge to knock him out with a solid blow to the temple. Instead, I seize him by the shoulders, haul him bodily off the couch, and push him towards the front door. He’s built like a scarecrow and runs, nearly tripping over his own feet.
“I need my clothes!” he bawls.
I grab them off the floor and throw them at him.
“Out!” I rage, my fists and teeth clenched.
When he tries to take a moment to struggle into his pants and underwear, I fling open the door, clutch him by the shoulder, and shove him, still naked, outside. I can’t help but grin as I slam the door right in his ashen face.
I stop grinning as, agonizingly slowly, I turn around, and finally look directly at Bailey. She’s still wrapped in a blanket and is visibly shaking, one trembling hand pressed to her luscious mouth. Silence stretches between us, punctuated only by the rush of blood in my ears. The scent of pepperoni pizza hangs absurdly in the air.
“Miss Bailey,” I say after a long pause, and take a step towards her. “I think we need to have a little chat.”4BaileyA single thought swirls in the whirlpool of my mind: I am in so much trouble.
Not just the trouble my dad is going to put me in when he finds out about this. Not just the trouble that this has inevitably caused for Donnie’s and my relationship. No. I’m in trouble because Christopher Maddox and I are alone in my living room, and I can’t stop thinking about how desperately I want him to fuck me.
The moment my eyes meet his, I’m flooded with a warmth that extends from my face to my feet. It’s a full-body blush the likes of which I’ve never experienced. This isn’t just mortification--this is need. I’m so overcome with desire that I need his hands, his mouth, his tongue on me, all over me. It takes all of my willpower not to drop the blanket I’m wrapped in right now, revealing my bare curves and heaving chest.
You are so ridiculous, I think to myself as Christopher shuts the door and locks it. I should be harboring more concern for my poor boyfriend, but instead I’m stifling laughter behind my palm. Donnie deserved to be put in his place a little. Still, I should be feeling something, anything besides excessive wantonness. Christopher has known me since I was a child; for all I know, he still views me as a little girl, and certainly not as a desirable woman.
Christopher turns to look at me.
“Miss Bailey,” he says, his voice low. “I think we need to have a little chat.”
Thank God my hand is still on my mouth because I barely restrain a whimper of want.
“I’m so, so sorry,” I say instead. Christopher’s piercing blue eyes hit me like an icicle through the heart, and I shiver. “I didn’t know you were going to deliver a pizza!”
“So you have sex with some punk-ass twerp in the living room?” he says, his hands on his hips.
His expression looks so much like my father’s at this moment that I swallow, hard. I wonder for how many decades I’ll be forbidden from leaving the house.
I can’t help it, and I get a little defensive.
“I’m eighteen,” I retort, crossing my arms over my chest. “Everyone my age is having sex. And it’s not like he’s some random guy — he’s my boyfriend.”
Christopher tilts his head, his blue eyes unreadable.
“Since when do you have a boyfriend?”
“Since three months ago,” I say.
“And you haven’t had sex until now?”
My jaw drops, and I’m shocked by the sound of Christopher’s rumbling laughter.
“Relax,” he says. “I’m just teasing you. You can wait as long as you want to have sex.”
“Thanks for the permission,” I grumble. Suddenly, it dawns on me that my father’s best friend--the one I’ve had an insatiable crush on for years--is talking to me about sex while I stand five feet away from him, wrapped only in a blanket. My heart threatens to leap out of my chest. I dare to meet his gaze, and he’s looking at me with an inscrutable expression, his lips pressed together. I wonder what he’s thinking.