Page 36 of The Good Girl

Touching my forehead to his, I murmur, “Shut up or I’ll stop.”

It’s amazing, because for the first time in my life Tristan Radcliffe has done exactly what I’ve told him to. It’s like I’m trying to overwrite my kiss with Sam as our mouths collide, crashing together with a passion that scares me. All the anger and frustration I’ve had for Tristan is coming to the surface but not in the way I expected. I don’t want to hurt him, I want to own him. I want my name on his lips, begging for mercy as I push him backwards onto the bed and climb on top, finding his mouth again to continue stoking the fire I’ve started. I feel his hands moving up my legs and grabbing onto my hips as I kiss him. Every now and again I grind against him, loving the way it makes him groan as I kiss the line of his neck.

“Fuck, Lena…”

“Shut up, Tris.” I grab a handful of his hair and yank his head back before nibbling on his ear, playfully sucking on the fleshy part as his hands move under my T-shirt, up my spine.

“Tris,” he whispers under his breath, and I know what he means. I haven’t called him that since we were younger, back when we were friends. I don’t know what’s going on here, but something has changed between us, and I don’t want to think about it, I just want to feel.

I push his shirt up and kiss his chest as my hands fumble with the button on his jeans. My tongue finds his nipple, and even though I’ve never done this before, it’s like dancing, my body just knows what to do, and when he makes little noises, I know that I’m on the right track. His fingers dig into the skin on my back as he moves beneath me. Just as I pop that button free finally, the door swings open.

I have never moved so fast in my life, rolling off Tristan and onto the floor as his dad stands in the doorway with a smug look on his face.

“What the fuck do you want?” Tristan says with a growl as he pulls his shirt down and sits up.

His father’s voice makes me cringe as he chuckles. “I was just coming in here to tell you to keep the noises down. I have company.”

Tristan makes a noise of disgust as he grinds out, “It doesn’t matter, they won’t be coming here again. Why do you care?”

When his father smiles, the hairs on my arms rise. There’s something sinister about him that makes me nervous. I stand, straightening the T-shirt Tristan gave me to wear, grateful that it’s like a dress on me as he looks at me with an appraising glare. “I was also curious about who you had in here, I never imagined that Elena would be so...assertive.”

Tristan stands, placing his body between his father and me. “Don’t act like you know a damned thing about her. Get out of my room.”

Peeking over Tristan’s shoulder, I say, “I’m just leaving now anyway, Mr. Radcliffe. I’m sorry for disturbing your evening.”

He smiles again. “Don’t leave because of me, stay. Have fun.”

When he closes the door behind him, I exhale like I’ve been running a marathon.

“I need to go,” I mumble, as I grab the bloody remains of my dress and my heels from the floor in the bathroom.

“What?”

“I need to go home.” I need to get as far away from Tristan as I can so that I can think clearly. So much had happened tonight and now this, whatever this was.

“You can’t just go.” Tristan grabs my wrist. “Are we going to talk about this?”

I swallow. “Talk about what?”

“The fact that you almost made me cum in my pants?” He holds two fingers up, barely an inch between them. “That you were this close to hate-fucking me?”

Shaking him off, I leave his room. “Like I said, talk about what? Nothing happened.”

“Like fuck!” I hear him shout behind me, but I’m halfway down the stairs at this point.

“See you around!” I call back as I slip out the front door and down the expensive driveway. I don’t even check if the door has closed properly behind me or if he’s following me.

When I clamber into the back of the taxi, that’s when it hits me: I made out with Tristan Radcliffe.

* * *

I spend my Saturday practicing with my violin, but my heart isn't in it. Tristan keeps texting and calling me, but god knows how he got my number because I didn’t give it to him. He’s my future husband, a future I didn’t choose, but he was there when I needed him. It was too much to think about right now, I needed to learn Sonata No.9 flawlessly or my father would be disappointed, and that was something I also couldn’t deal with at the moment.

With a groan as I ruin another note, I give up and sit on the chaise longue in my room, glaring at my reflection in the mirror. I was a failure. I wasn’t going to be able to pull this off. A fraud. Just trying to pretend to be the perfect daughter.

“I’m proud of you, darling,” my mother coos as she swans into my room with a bottle of champagne and two glasses in her hand. “Atlas told me everything. You’re more like me than I thought.”

I don’t even need to ask to know what she’s on about. She’s talking about Sam and the way I turned him into a bloody pulp yesterday. She never usually talks to me like this, and she especially doesn't bring a $1,000 bottle of alcohol to my room as if we’re about to have girly chats and giggles. As she pops the cork and pours, I shake my head. “How can you be proud of me?”

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