Ricochet (Addicted #1.5) Page 11

  “My mother slapped my sister,” I say, completely detached from the words.

  Ryke doesn’t even flinch. He just stares off at the dancers. “Funny, my mother did the same thing to me when I told her I was coming here.” He sips his own water.

  “I think your father saved me tonight.”

  Ryke stays quiet, letting this sink in.

  We’re so fucked up. That’s all I can think and process.

  And another batch of balloons begins to fall at the end of the song. The ceiling flickers with soft-lit multicolored lights.

  I made it.

  No guy touched me. I didn’t touch them. Sex was the last thing on my mind tonight.

  Each day feels like an obstacle.

  And a victory.

  FEBRUARY

  {5}

  Three different pints of ice cream squeeze in between my thighs, the chill seeping into my Ms. Marvel pajama pants. Valentine’s Day sucks. Connor and Rose planned their date for the past week at some fancy restaurant, leaving me to gorge on Chunky Monkey, Half-Baked, and Cherry Garcia alone. I watch late-night cartoons on the high-def television, being transported back to my childhood years with Looney Tunes. With each “that’s all folks,” my heart thuds and I turn my head, about to mention how much I liked or hated the episode to Lo.

  Who’s not here.

  He hasn’t emailed yet. Fourteen days into the month, and I haven’t heard a peep from him, not even a mention that he’s alive and well. The last couple days of January, he sent me a bouquet of red roses. I think he meant for them to arrive today. At least I hope so—that way I’d know he still thinks about us and hasn’t planned to end our relationship for good.

  My mother’s comment at the Fizzle event hasn’t calmed my worries either. If she thinks I need a “backup” plan, I wonder who else believes he’ll ditch me when he returns home.

  That paranoia—it festers like a sore. I glance at the glass vase on my end table. The roses droop and wilt, but the card sits open. Remembering the words in Lo’s messy scrawl eases me a little.

  These are real.

  My chest swells. These are real.

  3 YEARS AGO

  Reality TV blares through my flat screen. Nothing beats faking sick on a school day and staying home in pajamas to watch trashy television. I lazily unwrap the individual chocolates from the heart-shaped Valentine’s box on my lap when a knock bangs on my door.

  For a moment, I debate on hiding the sweets, but I go against it. Too much work, and really, what’s the probability that my mother is on the other side of the door? The last time she willfully entered my room was probably two years ago when our housekeeper accidentally shelved one of Daisy’s debutant dresses in my closet. I opened my door to find my mother hysterically screaming at the air—haphazardly flinging my clothes in wild distress and anger. When she found the maroon gown, she told me I should have realized the dress was misplaced. And then she stomped away.

  Leaving me alone.

  It’s safe to say the knock did not come from her.

  My door slowly swings open without an invitation, and I immediately relax. Lo fills the archway, wearing his Dalton Academy uniform: black slacks, white button-down, and the skinny blue tie that has been loosened at his neck. It fits him well…maybe too well.

  He scans me in a long once-over, and then his brows rise in accusation. “No runny nose, no clammy skin, cough or even a wad of tissues,” he says. “I must say, Lil, you are the worst at faking sick.”

  “Good thing I’m not really trying.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me you were going to skip?” he asks, still lingering by the door frame. Odd, but I try not to question it.

  “I didn’t want you to feel obligated to skip with me.” I straighten up and lean against my headboard. The truth: pretending to be in a relationship with Lo consists of PDA. Lots of it. Since it’s Valentine’s Day, I didn’t want to be in class and have a candy gram delivered to me. Or be in the hallways trying to escalate the flirty looks and make out sessions just to show off our fake romance. I’m exhausted just thinking about it.

  His eyes land on my nightstand. Twenty-four red roses bloom in a crystal vase. The little card sticks out from the sea of petals. I already read it out loud this morning at Daisy’s request. Happy Valentine’s Day. With all my love, Lo.

  “Nice touch,” I tell him after the moment of silence. “Daisy nearly died when she saw them, and I think my mom was really pleased.” We’re definitely selling our fake relationship well. Six months in and no one has questioned it thus far.

  “Do you like them?” he wonders, undoing the rest of his tie.

  I break away to look at the roses again. No boy has ever sent me flowers. On my birthday, the house will be overflowing with lilies to commemorate the occasion, but they’re usually from family or friends of my parents.

  At first I thought these roses were another pretend gesture of our fake relationship. Now that Lo asks me if I like them, I’m not so sure anymore.

  “They’re pretty and much better than lilies,” I admit.

  “I’m the best fake boyfriend ever then,” he says with an easy smile. And my suspicions sputter out. Fake boyfriend. Of course. He finally closes the distance between us and plops down next to me. He tilts my box of chocolates with his finger and grimaces. “You’re nasty.”

  “I don’t like the fillings.” All the chocolates are bitten in half and some have been spit back out into the box. I have yet to find one that isn’t revolting.

  “Well, I can’t look at this.” He closes the box and sets it on the nightstand. He scoots nearer, leans a little closer and gently rests his palm on my forehead, successfully invading my space and causing my breath to whoosh from my lungs.

  “You’re not warm,” he says softly and drops his hand to my neck and lightly presses. “Lymph nodes aren’t swollen.”

  I narrow my eyes. “How do you know about lymph nodes?”

  “I had the flu last year,” he reminds me. “Shhh, and let me finish my diagnosis.”

  My cheeks grow hot.

  “You’re flushed,” he nods and tries to suppress a growing smile. He puts his hands on my shoulders and leans my head back against the pillow, kneeling and towering over me. “I have to listen to your heart.”

  “No,” I retort weakly, not in the mood to play with him. Not when it always has to end with me tense and aroused and needy. He loves to tease me, and I worry about the day where I won’t have the strength to say no.

  He ignores me and places his ear to the bareness of my collarbone, the place peeking from my V-neck shirt. I inhale a sharp breath, his face too near. After a long moment, he rises a little and says, “I knew it.”

  My eyes narrow. “Knew what?”

  His hot gaze traces my lips, and then flits back up to my eyes. “You’re suffering from a clear case of...” His mouth brushes my ear. “…infatuation.”

  I slap him on the arm and try to sit up, but he’s ready for me. He leans in and tickles my waist and hips so quickly that I never see him coming. And I laugh and squirm beneath him until I cry out for him to stop, happy tears squeezing from my eyes.

  We settle down with heavy breath. Both lying on our sides, our feet tangled together, we stare at each other in the easy silence.

  “And what’s the cure?” I ask, playing along this time, even though I know I shouldn’t.

  He wears a crooked grin that could melt a thousand girls.

  Very softly, he says, “Me.”

  My eyes pin to his soft lips, begging me to press mine to them. He leans in a little, but doesn’t close the gap, uncertainty still lingering. It feels like his body pulls me into it, a magnetic force too strong to fight. I scoot nearer, and my foot brushes his bare ankle. His breathing deepens.

  I can’t stop staring at his lips, imagining what they’d feel like against mine. Soft, forceful, hungry. My resilience sputters out and I bridge the distance, landing a quick kiss on his lips before pulling away. I think I
hoped the chaste, PG-rated kiss would satisfy my desires. Nope. In fact, all I want to do is wipe that silly smile off his face with a deeper one.

  “What was that?” he asks, amused. His lips skim mine and fall back teasingly.

  “My cure,” I say, playing along. It makes this less real. Right? Still on our sides, our bodies have moved closer and closer on their own mission, separating from our brains. His hand runs up and down my back, stopping at the dip above my waist.

  “That was the wrong dose,” he whispers.

  “Oh.”

  It only takes him a moment before he leans in and our lips mesh together, mimicking the state of our bodies. His hand cups the back of my head and he sucks on the bottom of my lip, making them ache all over again. My lower half starts to move out of instinct, pressing harder into him as the kiss deepens. His tongue slips into my mouth and a moan escapes my lips.

  I have to detach. “Lo,” I whisper, trying to clear my mind and assess what the hell my body is doing. Literally, I’m gripping his shirt and my leg has somehow made it over his hip.

  “It’s Valentine’s Day,” he reminds me, breaking away from the game. “I want to give you something.”

  Something. Vague—and in my perverted mind, I’m thinking of all types of nefarious things.

  “You already gave me flowers.” But I don’t remove myself from this position—pressed so tightly against him that I can feel the slow rhythm of his heartbeat against my chest.

  “Something better.”

  I want it. Even if I don’t know what it is. But there are some lines I can’t cross with Lo, no matter what he offers me, so I ask, “What?”

  He pulls my head into his chest and brushes my hair back. I feel his warm breath as he leans into my ear and whispers, “I want to make you come.”

  Inside, I am cheering at the idea but my head starts shaking on another, different automatic setting. I move my head back while my body stays glued to him.

  “No?” His eyes rise and he props himself up just a little by his elbow. “I thought it was the perfect Valentine’s gift, especially since I planned to keep all your clothes on.”

  My heart begins to beat even quicker at the prospect. We’ve done things since we started “fake” dating. When we practice making out, it sometimes leads to touching and stuff, but I’ve managed to stop before it progressed to a climax. Sex isn’t the same thing as fooling around. The latter of which has been a staple in our pretend relationship. It’s been a couple weeks since my last lay, and I already made plans for this Saturday to get my next fix. I strike at any opportunity to attend a party thrown by a public school kid, and I don’t know if doing something with Lo today would be right.

  “I’m going to that bonfire party this Saturday,” I end up saying.

  I wait for him to pull away, but he doesn’t. “Me too,” he breathes and lightly kisses me on the lips.

  “I’m going to have sex there.”

  “I’m going to get wasted.” He presses his lips quickly to mine once more and then rubs his thumb over the sensitive skin on my ear. I practically shudder at the touch.

  “Lo.”

  “Lily.” His fingers drop to his button. I stare in fixation at the small movements.

  Somehow I’m able to mutter, “I didn’t get you anything.”

  His lips quirk but he doesn’t say anything else. I can see the hem of his boxer-briefs, and I realize I have to move away from him so he can slide his pants completely off. I detach myself, scooting back as the spot between my legs throbs.

  My mind charges into convince-mode. I can do this. I can stop myself from something worse happening. He said I get to keep my clothes on. That means no sex. That means we can do this and it’ll still be okay.

  His flask slips out of his pants as he jerks them off. I pick it up easily, debating on taking a large swig. Maybe it’ll ease my warring thoughts. Silencing either the part of me that says stop or the other that says fuck yeah.

  Now in his boxer-briefs, Lo turns and sees me with his alcohol. He takes it quickly from me, his eyes still light. He raises his drink. “Mine,” he says. He takes my hand in his and places it over the bulge in his boxer-briefs. “Yours.”

  Ohhhhh…shit. I’m doomed.

  I think I should remove my hand, especially since normal people would probably jerk back at this point. But something keeps it right there. On him.

  He doesn’t seem surprised by this. In fact, he continues to strip in front of me, unbuttoning his shirt and tugging it off. It feels like my birthday or something, only I have to keep reminding myself that this is Lo and not some stripper in one of my fantasies.

  Now nearly naked, I pull my hand away, and he playfully folds the hem of his boxer-briefs. I gasp and he grins. “On or off, love? Your choice.”

  My brain zeros out into nothingness. It cannot compute his question. “I’ll take that as a you can’t handle it,” he says huskily and leaves his underwear on. No. I definitely cannot handle seeing his dick right now. I can barely handle breathing at this point.

  He climbs onto my body and leans in for another deep kiss. It’s different feeling bare skin against my fully-clothed body. With my conquests, it’s usually the other way around. I like this though. Running my hands over his bare back and down to his ass. My body pulses for something more, and I hear his words like a chorus in my head—I want to make you come. All protests and sensibility leave my mind completely.

  His kisses suddenly turn feathery light again, teasing me a little. When he lands another PG-kiss on my lips, I let out a long groan. I can barely take this much longer. I am not a Disney Princess. I do not swoon over kissing unless it involves tongue and force and leads to other lustful events.

  Deciding to take matters into my own hands…or hips, I buck up a little so that our pelvises meet. The contact feels much better. I just…need to be closer.

  Lo pushes my body down in response and presses into me, the hardness in his pants grinding against the ache in between my legs. His lips turn from light to determined, devouring mine with rapt attention. And as he rubs against me, the tension escalates, pushing my body into a hyperaware state. Every touch sets me off, and all I want right now is for my clothes to disappear. For me to feel him inside. For the ache to be taken away with a thrust and a blissful high.

  My trembling hands try to grip the bottom of my shirt and yank it off. I get it halfway up before Lo stops moving and puts his hand on mine. “No. Your clothes stay on,” he breathes. His lips are red and raw, and I can barely move my eyes off them.

  I blink.

  Lo pulls each finger off my shirt and then laces them with his. His lips find the nape of my neck and then glide to my earlobe, nibbling and kissing. My hips lift as he presses down, and I can feel him getting harder and harder, adding to my arousal. His lips move down to my chest, tracing their way even further across my shirt, his hands tight against my hips.

  He kisses me again, his tongue flicking into my mouth.

  I’m dying inside. I want more.

  I lift my hips and this time he grabs my ass and squeezes. Hard. I let out a long moan and my body shudders. He keeps me tight against him, as his hands move and knead my inner thighs all the way up. Slowly. Slowly. Slowly. Avoiding that one spot that demands attention.

  I let out a whimper and he sets me back down. His breathing deepens, and he starts moving his body even faster, pushing and making sure to rub himself against me. It works. The tension starts to build and I rock with him as he finds my mouth again. And then all of a sudden, everything explodes. I have to break away from his lips, burying my face into his bicep as my orgasm bursts into waves.

  He cups the back of my head and holds me as I shudder in euphoria and bliss and the high that turns me into a wild beast.

  It only takes a couple minutes before it flits away, leaving me with a sinking feeling. Without the urges, my mind clears and the enormity of what I just did hits me cold. I break away from Lo, refusing to meet his eyes that follow
me in utter concern.

  I quickly grab my phone on the table.

  “What are you doing?” he asks, insecurity bubbling in his voice.

  A lump has taken residence in my throat, but I manage to mutter, “Nothing…just…clothes on.” I motion to his pants on the floor. I can’t look at him nearly-naked. I don’t trust myself anymore.

  He fumbles around with his clothes while my heart beats wildly. And then…I find it.

  “I think we just had sex,” I say in horror, staring at the small screen on my phone.

  “What?” He frowns and walks over, still shirtless but at least he has his pants on.

  I hold up my phone. “Non-penetrative sex,” he reads and then licks his bottom lip in thought. His eyes meet mine. “That’s not real sex, Lil.”

  “That’s not what this says.” I continue reading. “Outercourse. I think we had outercourse! Oh my God.” My heart is going to detonate. I crossed a line. I let myself get caught up in all the mixed up feelings and I crossed a fucking line.

  “Whoa!” Lo puts his hands on my cheeks, forcing me to look at him. “Take some breaths.” He waits for me and then says, “It’s Wikipedia. Not the fucking Holy Grail. You get to choose what you consider real sex for you. Okay?” His eyes look a little guilty, and I feel even worse for making him remorseful for something that I clearly wanted.

  “Okay,” I say with a nod. “Then that wasn’t real. Outercourse doesn’t count.”

  Relief fills him.

  “But,” I continue. “I don’t think we should do it again.” I don’t trust myself.

  He drops his hands from my cheeks. “That’s fine,” he says, sounding a little detached. “I just…” he shakes his head. “It’s Valentine’s Day.”

  “I know.” I can’t let him go with that. “And it was the best present I’ve ever gotten. Honest.”

  He smiles and kisses me lightly on the temple before picking his flask up on the desk.

  I let out a deep breath. Never again. But as I remember the way he looked at me, commanding and determined and so very powerful, as though making me cry was his sole goal in life—well, I know I may never find that with someone else.