Page 67 of The Masks We Burn

Fuck.

Somehow I force my head to stay up straight, nodding at Lily and Spencer’s story as William’s finger rotates in circles over my nub.

The fear of getting caught heightens the pleasure, and the sparks start quickly, unfolding in my lower belly before spiraling through my limbs until it explodes. I yank the long towel up to my face, biting into the fabric and releasing a low moan while everyone laughs at another joke.

But then William, being the man he is, slips two fingers inside my clenched core, fucking me with the digits to prolong the orgasm.

I can’t help the scream that rips out of my throat and do the only thing I know to cover up the sound.

The water is colder than I thought it would be, but luckily, I’m able to catch myself on the side of the float.

“You alright?” Lily calls over.

“Peachy!”

When we arrive at the tents, we are all pretty much crawling to get inside them. The resort has an amazing bathroom and shower building that seriously looks better than my mom’s. The tents on the outside are all attached to a long hall-type tent. So while we all have our own private places to sleep, we can unzip our “door” and follow the hall a few yards to our neighbors.

After an amazing shower and eating too many tacos by the little bonfire, we finally call it a night and enter our respective tents. I trudge down the long hall, stubbornly deciding to take the furthest one from William.

He did me the favor of giving me the orgasm I was denied for tonight, but I still want to teach him a lesson.

Inside my tent, I drop my small bag and fall into the air mattress taking up the majority of the floor. It’s surprisingly comfortable and my tense body melts into it, exhaustion sweeping over quickly.

Good, at least I won’t be tempted to go find him.

Slipping under the soft blankets, I rest my head on the cushy pillow and let my eyes flutter closed. And for two seconds, I’m somewhere between bliss and contentment.

The next, every fear I’ve ever had reminds me how frail I really am.

Fuck,fuck, fuck. It wasnotsupposed to rain.

I checked the radar every damn day and even before I went to bed. It was clear.

Rushing down the hall, I reach the zipper to her tent when the next roll of thunder cracks in the air.

Shit.

“Amora, it’s me, baby. I’m telling you it’s me so you’re not afraid when I open the zipper.”

I make quick work of opening it enough to slip in and close it behind me. Amora is on me before I turn around, her arms grasping the back of my neck, her face buried in my chest.

“Shhh, I’m here. Let’s move to the bed.”

She grips me tighter but doesn’t speak, so instead of making her walk, I scoop her into my arms and carry her to the wide mattress. The tents are permanent features, built with iron bars, and cemented in the ground for stability—it was the first thing I checked. But even with those features and the thick silicone coating over the nylon, the rain is still very much pounding down overhead.

I sit down at the edge of the mattress, my knees bent as I nestle her closer. We stay like that for a while as she takes short breaths, holding on to me as if I’m the only thing keeping her from drowning. I stroke her hair as I wait.

It isn’t until much later, when the storm is only a little lighter, that she finally stirs in my arms. “I bet you think I’m the biggest child.”

I shake my head even though she can’t see me. “I don’t. Not even in the slightest.”

“When I was eight.” She pauses through her trembling words before pushing out a large breath. “When I was eight, the roof to our house caved in. It wasn’t even a strong storm or anything, but our apartment was shit and looking for a reason to collapse.”

My strokes stop, my heart plummeting into my stomach. I’d put the pieces together wrong. For the first time in my life, I don’t know how to respond, what I could possibly say to make her feel safe, and it eats at my insides.

Before I can muster up anything, she continues, letting go of my neck and placing one hand in her lap while the other rubs along the butterflies on my arm. “My parents immigrated while my mom was pregnant. They didn’t have anything or know anyone here, so my dad took jobsunder the tableto get us a place. It was enough to get us by, day by day. But we lived in a really bad, run-down area and my mom couldn’t leave the apartment without being terrified of being mugged or worse. She told me it had happened where she came from.”

Amora leans farther into my chest, her breath now steady as her mind replays her youth. “Anyway, it was as shitty as you’d expect. Sometimes my dad would be gone longer than a few days, and I’d have to go to school in dirty clothes since my mom refused to go to the laundromat. There were days I only ate when I was at school. I mean, think of the poorest kid you ever saw at school. That was me.”

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