“Hamilton.” Reagan yanks my arm.
“Huh?” I rub my neck and feel the prickle of sweat that’s beaded there, my pants feeling tight just from the memory. Reagan looks beyond irritated. I clear my throat. “So that’s a ‘no’ on the office. Coach would kill me. The last thing I need right now is more detention, or to lose my half-captainship.”
“Then figure something out, okay?” She blows out sharply, eyes narrowed. “Because you’re the one with all the limitations and parameters. I’m here for you—ready and willing—but if you’re not into it…”
I nod, not knowing what to say or do. Usually, if I’m distant or sharp toward a girl, she just fucks off. For someone with as long of a sexual rap sheet as me, I somehow have developed zero rejection skillsets. And Reagan just isn’t taking the hint.
“I’ll see what I can do.”
That seems to appease her, which is all I want at the moment. I’ll just kick that can down the road. Once we’ve entered the classroom, I brace myself for Gwendolyn’s entrance. I’m going to have to sit mere feet away from her for the next hour, all the while somehow pretending I don’t know what it feels like to be inside of her, to see the way her face spasms when she comes, as if I haven’t tasted her, taken her.
I cast a furtive, exasperated glance down at my swelling dick.
I slouch in my desk, tapping my pen on the notebook in front of me, doing my best to remain calm and casual. Reagan leans over to unzip her backpack and her collar shifts, revealing a fresh hickey on her neck.
I raise an eyebrow.
Maybe she didn’t miss me this weekend as much as she claims.
That line of thought vanishes when Gwendolyn walks in and all my attention is focused on pretending like I’m looking at anything—anyone but her.
There’s no doubt she’s under my skin and for the first time in my life, I feel completely and totally out of control.
The crazy thing is that I kind of like it.
Fourth period. Library. I spot Gwendolyn across the room with her headphones on, as usual, blocking out the world.
I’m supposed to be researching for a history paper on the Battle of Gettysburg. Instead I pull up the Preston Prep instant messaging system.
H: Hey.
G: Hi?
H: So listen… can we meet?
G: For what?
H: You know what.
G: You’re seriously IM’ing me about this.
H: I don’t have your phone number or I’d text.
G: No, you wouldn’t.
H: Sure I would, why not?
G: Because your friends would find out. Or your girlfriend.
Ouch.
H: Anyway, let’s meet.
G: I have tutoring today, then swim, then I’m busy.
H: You’re getting tutored?
G: I am the tutor, asshole.