Me: lemme come over. I promise 2 not behave. *winky face*
I’m like eighty percent certain she’s going to tell me to fuck off, but she surprises me.
Stormy: Okay, but only because I need help with Adaptive English. Don’t get cocky on me.
Me: Oh, sweetness, we both know I am always cocky for you.
I feel her blush giving me sunburn from across campus.
I spring out of bed with a smirk and go take a piss, which is difficult given that my thoughts keep sliding like an avalanche back to Stormy.
I brush my teeth, tug on a pair of navy blue chinos, and choose a white button-down out of my closet. I complete the look with a pair of lace-free trainers. When I’m done, I check myself in the mirror and grimace when I notice a lapel of my collar sticking up like I'm a Martha’s Vineyard fuckboy. I flatten it quickly and run a hand through my hair.
Then I shrug on my Burberry puffer jacket and head to the door. I snatch a surprise for Stormy before I leave and toss it into a duffel bag.
Time to take it up a notch for my perfect storm.
— Harlow —
I shouldn’t want him to come over. I shouldn’t have accepted his invitation, but then again, I am doing lots of things I shouldn’t be doing lately.
Like dreaming of him and his perfectly kissable lips and his gaze like rolling thunder.
Like letting him devour my mouth until all I taste is him and my lungs burn for breath.
Like letting him touch me and then coming all over his fingers.
He’s a bad habit I can’t shake, and he’s claiming my firsts one after another, like we are marking through days on a calendar.
First making out with a half-naked boy in a locker room? Check.
First kiss that I felt all the way down to the throbbing pulse between my legs? Check.
First orgasm by a boy’s hands? Check.
First true…I can’t say the word because if I say the word then it’s real, and it can’t be real.
I can’t crave the boy who allows the torment of my friend.
I can’t ache for the touch of my bully.
I can’t love my enemy.
But no matter what I say, no matter what I tell myself, the truth is, I’m not strong enough. I am weak. I can’t say no to the raven-haired king of Voclain Academy.
I spring out of bed and tidy up, though there’s not much to tidy. Molly is always so clean like she believes she’s an unwelcome guest who will find herself homeless at the first infraction. She texted me last night, letting me know she was spending the night out of town with her parents after Atticus cried when she tried to leave.
She’s such a wonderful sister, completely there for her little brother, and that makes my heart squeeze. I should have been there like that for William. Maybe if I had, he would still be alive.
I brush my teeth and comb my hair, but in an act of defiance—like I really have any control when I’m with Ian—I leave on my pajamas, soft pink lounge pants patterned with the outline of little flowers and a matching long sleeve top that’s a little baggy.
I rub on cherry Chapstick and set out my Adaptive English homework, first on the bed—no, too much temptation—then on the desk—no, too crowded and he’s already hard enough to resist—and then finally in the center of the room on the floor. A knock at the door sends me scrambling to stand.
I open the door and find Ian staring down at me, holding a duffel in one hand, with his other stuffed into a pocket of his jacket. He eyes me lazily from head-to-toe, a hedonistic smirk playing on his lips.
“Cute PJs,” he says, and he leans in, the mint of his toothpaste fanning over my face with his next words. “I’m up for studying in bed if you are, Stormy, but I have to warn you, I don’t think we’ll be doing much studying.”
I move out of the doorjamb and point to my Adaptive English notes scattered on the carpet. “We better stick to the floor, Beckett.”
He chuckles as he moves inside the room, his shoulder brushing against mine. “If you insist, dearest.”
The endearment hits me like a dagger straight through my bleeding heart.
The room feels crowded. He looks like he’s up for going on a stroll through the Hamptons, and I am sure he can see through my shirt to my nipples, which rose to attention at the mere sight of him. I cross my arms over my chest reflexively and wish I had thought to put on a bra.
Ian opens his duffel and deposits a glass bottle on my desk. He adds an electric teakettle, a canister of hot chocolate, two mugs, and a bag of marshmallows alongside the bottle.
“Cocoa?” I say, my lips twitching with the hint of a smile. It’s literally my favorite part of cold weather. “It’s not even November yet.”
He scoffs at me as he shrugs off his jacket and drapes it over the back of my chair, but amusement ignites in his gaze. “Halloween’s tomorrow, Stormy, and it’s never too early for hot chocolate.” He holds a hand over his heart like he’s been mortally wounded. “I don’t think we can be friends anymore. Who doesn’t like hot chocolate? Are you one of those girls that only eats like”—he switches to a high-pitched falsetto that sounds 100% basic—“free-range kale salads and alkaline water?”
I snort. “I’m more like a cheeseburger and milkshake kind of girl, thank you very much.”
He grabs my wrist and tugs me closer. “Mmm,” he groans, “what I would give to watch that.”
I meet his dark gaze, but my words are more breath than voice. “You want to
