Suddenly, I receive a text from Emmett. My phone dings just a second too late, and my heart leaps. The good thing about this phone is that I can read the messages from the notification alert.
Check your notes, pet ;)
Like a zombie, I go to my note sections. There’s only one note there – I don’t make a habit of leaving notes in my phone. It was created yesterday at 1:12 am. The title is: To Ophelia, From Emmett.
You’re going to give in, pet.
You want me to fuck you. I can see it in your eyes. I can feel it in your body every time I touch you. You shiver when I come close, and you can’t stop staring at my lips.
I’m going to bury my cock in your sweet pussy. I’m going to pound in you until you come, screaming my name. You’re going to want me to do it. You’re going to beg me. And I’m going to enjoy it so much. I’ll eat you out like you’ve never been eaten out before.
Arcadia was just a taste. I want more of you. All of you. Writhing and screaming beneath me, milking my cock because I feel so good inside you.
You want more of me. I know it. We both do.
I’ll see you tomorrow, pet. ;)
My breaths come in quick pants. There’s a liquid lava heating my core, and I feel like I can’t think straight. Emmett’s face flashes in my mind, and a strike of desire lights me on fire as I think of his tongue wetting his lip.
No no no no no.
This cannot be.
I cannot let this happen.
I quickly – even though I want to read it again, even though I want to memorize the words, even though I want to feel how hot and bothered they make me – delete his note. But the damage is done. Just thinking of us together is sending me off the rails. Just knowing that he also feels the same way makes me want to think that it’s okay.
But it’s not okay.
This is ridiculous. I cannot be having these thoughts and feelings about him. He’s perverted and disgusting and hurtful and cruel and everything I don’t want in a partner.
He’ll do nothing but use me and abuse me.
I need to seriously get Emmett Jameson out of my head.
6
Chapter Six
They’re planning something.
I just don’t know what yet.
The rest of the week passes by uneventfully. I eat my lunch in my car. Whenever I passed by one of The Elites, they didn’t look at me. Whispers followed wherever I went, but it seemed the horny fuckfaces had backed off on the propositions. I gave the sophmore the middle finger a couple times, but he didn’t react.
My teachers, it seems, are oblivious. Either that or too scared to do anything. To them, the first two days of school were completely normal. Absolutely nothing happened.
Coach Granger doesn’t say anything when he sees the faint marks around my neck. Instead, he runs me into the ground every day. Or, the assistant does. But I know he watched me kick ass. When he left after the start of practice, I watched him go and sit in his car. It was strategically placed on the Visitor’s parking lot, an elevated lot right behind the main office. He stayed there for the entire practice, every practice, and I couldn’t help but smile.
Sometimes, coaches are as obsessed with the sport as the athletes.
Practice is going generally well. I’m performing at top-notch, and my body feels strong and capable. But school still nettles me.
But what bothers me is the absolute absence of anything. No acknowledgement. No side glances. No pointed glares. No shoving. No sexual touching. No nothing.
The Elites are ignoring me. Hard. And I can’t help but think this is part of their diabolical plan. Their “ruin Ophelia for life as no one clearly gives a fuck” plan.
They don’t seem like the kind of people to just back off. No. There is a reason behind everything they do.