Page 18 of The Fight

Base to tip, base to tip—my strokes are steady and easy. I’m thick and heavy in my own hand, and it makes me wonder how I would ever fit inside her. She’s so small compared to me.

Fuck.

The image shifts, and instead of her alone, now I’m on top of her, thrusting into her virgin cunt and pinning her arms above her head. Her pert tits bob with every movement and beg to be tasted. I look down and watch where her pussy takes every last inch of me, hungry and wet.

Sounds from the made-up delusion in my mind start to play. Wet skin slapping, exhausted moans, my name tumbling from her lips. It’s almost too much, but not enough at the same time.

I move back to the present and focus on my own pace. Running my thumb over the top part of my shaft, I shudder. Precum spills from my tip, and I use it to lubricate my hand. It’s sticky and warm, coating my hand just enough to make my strokes a little less abrasive.

Moving the hand gripping her panties, I shove it into my pants too. Quickly, I wrap the fabric around my cock and continue tugging. Her panties are soft and cocoon my length with a new kind of warmth—one that sends me over the edge. My body tenses, and stars dance behind my lids. I come hard and fast, spilling my seed into the front of her panties.

My breath comes out in quick, ragged puffs, but I still don’t make a sound. Not enough to wake Blair, anyway. Removing my hands from my jeans, I hold her panties in front of my face. My cum clings to them, staining them, and it makes me smile.

The post-nut clarity comes, and I realize how fucking weird all of this is. But if I have to fantasize about her, I’ll make her do the same.

I hang the delicate thong marred with me on her handle, then head to my room.

Sleep tight, Dollface.

CHAPTER TWELVE

BLAIR

Iwake up to the sun streaming through the window, slicing through my room like a knife. My head throbs with each beam, pounding in time with my heartbeat. I groan and throw my arm over my eyes to try and block out the sun. God, I feel like I’ve been hit by a truck.

As I lie there, my mind starts to slowly piece together fragments of the night before. The party. The drinking. Shay throwing me over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes. A wave of embarrassment floods over me. I remember yelling something at him too. Something about being a virgin.

“Shit,” I mutter, feeling a rush of heat flood my cheeks. Why would I tell him that? He’s already a dick, and I’m sure that will just be more ammo for his arsenal.

Grabbing my phone, I look at the screen for the time, but another message from the unknown number stares back at me. The text is blank. No words, no taunts. This isn’t the first time this has happened, and for some reason, it makes me feel almost more uneasy than when there are words.

Throwing the device beside me, I push myself up, the room slightly tilting as I swing my legs over the side of the bed. I sit there for a moment, waiting for the dizziness to pass. The wallsare too fucking white, and so is all the furniture, making my head throb even more. My throat feels like sandpaper. I need water. And Tylenol. Lots of Tylenol.

Sliding onto the floor, I crawl over to a half-unpacked box sitting on the floor. It’s filled with bathroom essentials from our old house. Digging through the mess of toiletries and random shit, I finally find the bottle of Tylenol at the bottom. I shake a couple of pills into my hand and swallow them dry, wincing as they scrape down my throat.

Some food might help too, so I decide to head downstairs. Using the bed to pull myself upright, I groan and press the heels of my palms into my eyes. Trying to shake some of the pain away, I move forward. I slip out of my door, then reach behind me to close it when I’m on the other side.

My hand is met with wet fabric. I turn around, confused and a little grossed out by whatever I touched, to find a pair of my panties hanging from the handle like some sort of twisted flag. I unravel the band and raise them with my pointer and thumb to examine what the fuck is on them.

My stomach twists with anger and humiliation when I realize. My heels were one thing, but this is another. Shay’s taunting tactics are getting fucking ridiculous.

Without a second thought, I storm next door to his room. I don’t even bother knocking; I just shove the door open and barge inside, ready to unleash every last ounce of anger I have.

But Shay isn’t there.

I stop, momentarily thrown off-balance by his absence. His room is unexpectedly neat, everything in its place. The bed is made with military precision, the sheets perfectly smooth, not a wrinkle in sight. His desk is organized with a few notebooks and a laptop stacked neatly on one side. There are a few pictures on the wall—mostly him after fights and one of a woman who shareshis eyes. His mom, I’m sure. A pair of boxing gloves hang from a hook by the closet too, looking worn and well used.

There’s a calmness to the room that feels at odds with the person I know. It’s unnerving how meticulous everything is, like he has to have everything under control. I swallow the lump in my throat. As much as I hate to admit it, his room feels safe. It’s the last thing I’d expect from Shay, who’s done nothing but make me feel like I’m standing on uneven ground from the moment we met.

I shake my head and try to focus. I need to find him.

The gym is a safe bet, considering it’s a place he clearly goes to work out pent-up aggression and flaunt his douchiness. Turning on my heel, I leave his room and head down the stairs. I find my mom and Henry in the kitchen, laughing and talking.

Before either of them can say anything to me, I hold up my hand. “I’m in a rush. Can I borrow your car?”

My mom tips her head. “In a rush dressed like that?”

I glance down at my pajamas. I don’t even care. “Yes. So, can I?”

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