Focus, fuckhead, I scold myself. Otherwise this is going to take forever.
I grunt as her mouth moves faster. Its hard to describe the sensation. Warm, wet. A bit sloppier than I thought it would be. Like fucking a peach that won’t stop moaning theatrically every time you dip in.
“Are you close?” she gasps, pulling back with a slurping sound. She’s panting a little.
Am I close?
Not nearly.
“Yeah,” I lie, barely recognizing my own voice. “I’m close.”
I force myself to look down at her as she resumes. Her eyes are brown. They’d be pretty if they weren’t rimmed with so much makeup. Every time she blinks those long false eyelashes, I think of caterpillars crawling across her face — which isn’t helping my performance any.
Could I be any more of an asshole?
This girl is sucking me off with the enthusiasm of a Dyson, and all I can think about is how much longer it’s going to take until I can get out of this room, away from her. Away from myself. Away from this whole fucking night.
By then, the damage will be done. I’ll have accomplished my mission of pushing away the only person I’ve ever even come close to—
No.
I fortify the metal barricade around my brain with fresh bolts and iron shackles, so the thoughts can’t creep in. So she can’t creep in. I force my mind to blank, focusing only on sensation.
Sienna’s mouth.
My cock.
But it’s not working. Five more minutes tick by, and I still can’t seem to finish. For all her faux enthusiasm, Sienna knows it too. Her lips smack together with a wet pop! as the suction releases. She sits up between my thighs. My still-hard dick points up at her, a soldier at attention, awaiting his orders.
“This isn’t working,” Sienna pouts, frustration plain in her voice. I can see why. She’s probably never had to put in this much effort for something as simple as a BJ. She’s so hot, most guys are ready to blow their load the first second her lips close over their tip.
Teenage virgins aren’t exactly known for their stamina.
Brows furrowed, she contemplates me like I’ve got some kind of anatomical issue. I can almost hear the thoughts turning over in her mind.
Whiskey dick?
Mommy issues?
Secretly gay?
Sienna prides herself on being the hottest piece of ass at Exeter Academy. I know that sounds derogatory, but it’s a title she gave herself. She takes abundant pride in her so-called “body count” of boys whose v-cards she’s collected, often bragging that she’s got nearly a full deck.
Her fingernail talons dig into my skin as she crawls up my body, straddling me. With our faces inches apart, I notice her lips are swollen and red from her efforts. She leans in to brush them against my ear, a breathy whisper.
“Why don’t you just fuck me instead?”
Her hair rubs against my cheek — straw-like, reeking of artificial strawberries — and I try not to grimace. At this point, I want to screw her about as much as I want to slam my own dick in the nearest doorway, but I don’t protest as she wriggles into a better position.
She stares into my eyes as she slowly hikes her stretchy orange skirt up around her midsection. She isn’t wearing underwear, which normally would be an exciting revelation, but I can’t seem to feel anything anymore. Not turned on, not revved up, not anything at all except…
Wrong.
This is all wrong.
Wrong time, wrong place, wrong girl.
“Archer?” Sienna’s head tilts. She’s gazing down at me in a way I’m sure she thinks is sexy — duck-bill lips, hooded eyes — waiting for my answer. When I don’t immediately give it, she takes my cock into her hands, pumping with the methodical expertise of a professional. “Don’t be shy. I know you want to fuck me… ”
Her voice holds no room for doubt. Why would it? She’s fucked every guy on the baseball team. It’s basically a rite of passage.
Chug a beer at home plate, then run the bases.
Toilet-paper Coach Hamm’s house before the first game.
Prank the rival team from the neighboring town.
Hook up with Sienna Sullivan at a house party.
“Sure,” I hear myself say in a dead voice, forcing my arms to lift from their place on the mattress. They’re stiff — like I’m a robot being operated via remote control, my decisions in the hands of someone else — as I reach for the condom on the bedside table.
Tear off the foil.
Roll it on.
Reach for her.
Hate myself.
“Let’s fuck.”
Chapter Three
JOSEPHINE
The house looks like the crime scene from a multiple homicide, bodies strewn everywhere. Jason Samborn is passed out in a heap on the pool table, a puddle of drool forming on the green felt. Several couples are hooking up right out in the open — writhing against walls, pressed together in semi-dark corners, too desperate to wait for their turn in one of the bedrooms or too intoxicated to care.
Following the pounding bass, I make my way toward the back of the cabin, where an open-concept kitchen and living room area looks out over the jagged Atlantic coastline. The water looms with dark presence, pressing against the rocks just beyond the edge of the terraced lawn.
For a summer house, this place is massive — bigger than most normal people’s year-round homes. But Lee Park’s family is anything but normal. His grandfather owns half of Singapore, along with a slew of other properties scattered across the globe. (Which makes him the third-richest kid in my graduating class, second only to Eva Ulrich, whose great-great-great-grandfather patented the tube sock, and Carl McDonald, heir to a multi-billion-dollar fast food empire.)
I step hesitantly into the sunken den area. Twin sisters Ophelia and Odette Wadell are snorting lines of Adderall off the glass coffee table, their identical platinum bobs swooshing around their faces as they chase with shots of chilled Grey Goose. Someone I don’t recognize is face-down on the other half of the sectional, one hand still clutching a green Jell-O shot.
Classy.
In the kitchen, half the baseball team is huddled around the island playing beer pong with stacks of plastic red cups, a keg waiting at the ready. Every time a ball makes it in, a fresh round of cheering and chest-bumping erupts.
Amid the hubbub, one of them spots me. Ryan Snyder, varsity first-baseman. He’s probably the nicest guy on the team — meaning he doesn’t outright ignore my presence at their parties. He always waves to me when I hang out in the bleachers after school, waiting to catch a ride home with Archer when practice ends.
Ryan is attractive in that All-American, Abercrombie model sort of way — tall with sandy blond hair and six pack abs, which are currently on full display. His red bathing suit is still damp from the pool, riding low on his hips, and he’s sporting a tan despite the fact summer has barely begun. It’s hard to believe the New England sun is strong enough to produce such a deep bronze in May.
“Yo! Valentine!” he yells over the strains of the Drake song blasting from the speakers, halting me in my tracks. “Where have you been hiding? Get over here and do a celeb-shot for me. My partner disappeared.”
My brows lift. “A what?”