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This is the day Whaley gave me the first of many, many lessons that I’ll never forget. No one bad is ever truly bad, and no one good is ever truly good.
I settle into my seat, catching the queen bee’s scowl before she plops down in her own seat. It does nothing but make me laugh at her attempt to intimidate me. I’ve seen a lot of shit in my life, Pom-Pom, and you don’t hold a candle to it.
I still remember the way he looked up at me and how his big brown eyes held mine. It was like all the air was sucked out of the room. It just took me by surprise, the sheer intensity of my reaction to him, and I knew it wasn’t going to be something I would shake anytime soon. I’d never experienced anything like that before. I was so lost, so entranced, that it took me a moment to come back to reality.
God, Dad would just love that. His prize-winning show pony acting out—what would the people think?
I’m drowning. I’m suffocating. I’m dying a little more inside every damn day.
Sometimes I wonder what goes on in Bunky’s head. The way he smiles and the faraway look he gets in his eyes at times, it’s like he’s slightly unhinged. No, not slightly, completely. Bunky is damn batshit crazy and toxic as fuck, but he’s ours so we deal with it.
One of these days, I’m going to be able to do what I want, when I want, without a single care for what anyone thinks… and I can’t wait.
“Let me the hell up.” I chuckle, shaking my head as I lean down, my mouth ghosting over his when I speak. “But I’m just gettin’ started.” Then I kiss him again, not at all caring about my busted lip.
Everything he’s doing feels so good. My dick’s harder than it’s ever been. Jesus, how is that possible? How can I hate someone so much and yet be this fucking hard for them?
I kiss him again and he moans, hands wrapping around me, pulling me closer. We’re rutting, groaning messes, rolling around on the forest floor like two animals mauling each other. It’s dirty, crazed, and honestly, really damn hot.
When I’m spent, I open my eyes, looking into his heated ones. “Come,” I bark out, ready to see him lose his damn mind. He rocks his hips once, twice, before a guttural cry tears past his lips and he’s bathing my hand in his cum. And yeah, I have to admit, that’s the hottest thing I’ve ever seen in my entire life.
Who fucks their enemy and likes it?
I lean back heavily against a tree, trying to wrap my head around what the fuck just happened. But mostly, I’m wondering why I want it to happen again.
Silas isn’t the only broken human hiding beneath a facade.
That hot, sticky tension between us just bubbled and boiled over until it exploded. It was magnetic. At one point, I looked into those depthless brown eyes and became hypnotized. The husky tone of his voice, his little drawl, and the taste of nicotine and danger was my undoing.
I think of his eyes again. Specifically, right after he came. I don’t think he noticed I was looking at him, but Jesus fuck, it was captivating. I swear those dark eyes have sprinkles of galaxies inside them, so many layers—lust, confusion, greed—and that’s what does it for me. Silas’ fucking eyes.
Is it normal to grow a newfound obsession with your enemy? I’ve never heard anything so ridiculous. I’m not mad about it though, not when the outcome is so fucking delicious.
You can run, Blaine, but just know that I love the chase.
He’s like an addiction, a drug of the worst kind that’s consuming me, and all I want is my next hit. I’m like an alcoholic dying for a sip, telling myself it’ll be the last one, but always wanting more. Silas Richards is my favorite vice.
I’m not too sure what happens next. I’m not even sure my mind plays a part in any conscious decisions currently. All I know is that when that jackass punches Silas I fucking lose it.
My chest is heaving, breaths puffing past my lips harshly as he works me up. “He punched you and it pissed me off. No one fucks with you but me.”
I didn’t know it was possible to be so horny all the time, but Blaine is like an undercover sex addict.
It’s scary, all these things I’m feeling. It’s so foreign and I know there’s a chance this could all blow up in my face, but I can’t fight it anymore. I can’t fight him. And when I finally accept that fact and let go, it truly feels like living.
Baby. The name makes me relax. The pain I was feeling—the pressure—it doesn’t magically disappear, but it does lessen. I don’t think Silas realized what he called me, but I did. And I fucking love it. I want him to call me that all the time. I want to be his baby every damn day and from now on, if he’ll let me.
“You’re important to me. Fuck that, I’m obsessed with you, Blaine Yates. Like a toxin there ain’t no cure for. You’ve poisoned me, baby, but I’ll happily suffer for you.”
No matter what, he’ll be safe with me, and I’m not afraid to burn down the world to make it happen.
“My boyfriend is the best and he needs to start realizing that.”
“Do you feel that for Blaine? Do you feel like you’d risk it all—risk the fall—just to make sure he’s okay? Would you jump without lookin’, Silas?”
“I told you I’m possessive, but you might not know exactly what that means, so let me explain.” His hand comes up to cage my throat, raw fury in his eyes when he speaks. “You’re mine, Blaine. My guy. I fuckin’ worship you. Every time you talk, you have me on a hook. Every time you do that weird snort-laugh, I want to own you. And every time you feel bad, I want to tear the world down to fix it. Why you think I’m ashamed, I dunno, but you gotta get that thought right out of your head before I fuck it out of you.”
I love it when he gets like this—possessive, primal, protective—because it shows me just how obsessed he is. That’s good, because if the tables were turned and he was the insecure one, I’d make him one of those cheesy banners and hang it from the cafeteria wall.
Bunky is… interesting. Well, more like a full-on psycho, but I’m not going to tell him that.
“Don’t tell me you called your daddy to come fuck with what’s mine?” My tone is lethal, nothing like I’ve ever heard it before. “You’ll regret that shit.”
Listen, some people swoon over chocolates and flowers, but I swoon over curse words and possessive jocks.
“Whatever our souls are made of, his and mine are the same.” Emily Brontë
