Page 14 of Anti-Hero

Butterflies riot in my stomach. Beneath the plush fabric of the robe, goose bumps rise on my skin, waiting for his reaction.

I’ve just given Kit permission to touch me. And if I had known saying those words would incite the most thrilling sensation I’d ever experienced, I would have done it years ago—or never dared to. I’ve never been addicted to anything, but I could become attached to this feeling. It’s how I imagine skydiving would feel. Weightless and reckless andoh shit, I already jumped, so there’s no escape route.

Kit bends forward to set his glass on the floor, then lounges back on his palms. “Straddle me.”

A request he issues in the same tone you might request a refill. Rote.

He does this all the time, I remind myself. This is an ordinary evening for him.

I scoff to conceal my growing apprehension. “Straddle you? So, I’m going to do all the work? Why even bother?—”

Kit’s huff cuts me off. “Yeah, that’s what I thought would happen. The hair dryer is?—”

It’s hard to say who’s more shocked when I climb onto his lap—Kit or me.

I think it’s Kit actually. BecauseI’vealways known that I harbored a secret fascination with him. That under the irritation, there was some giddiness associated with our interactions. That on the rare occasions I saw him on campus and he acknowledged me, it’d be the highlight of my day. He’s fun to look at and talk to and be around. A presence impossible to ignore, so the contrarian in me always took some satisfaction in pretending to.

Right now, straddling his lap and staring at his stunned expression, I can’t hide my reactions the way I’m accustomed to. Kit notices my rapid inhales. I’m breathing far too fast to make any claim of unaffected, the ragged rhythm filling my head with the scent of his cologne. Something woodsy and citrusy and intoxicating.

His hands land on my hips, their heat burning through the layer of luxurious robe, before moving to deftly untie the knot. The front gapes open, the brush of soft fabric against sensitized skin almost unbearable. I need itoffall of a sudden, but Kit doesn’t seem to be in any hurry. My breasts feel tight and heavy. My inner muscles clench tight with anticipation.

“Set a timer.”

I blink rapidly, drugged by the exhilarating sensation of his fingers skimming over my skin. “Huh?”

The left corner of Kit’s mouth lifts. “Set a timer, Monty. One minute, remember?”

I’m alarmed by how fast I forgot this was all part of a bet. By how badly I suddenly want to lose.

Wordlessly, I reach for my phone. Kit’s thumb traces the hem of my thong while my shaky fingers fumble through setting a timer.

I flash him the screen as sixty seconds drop to fifty-nine.

At fifty-eight, the lacy barrier of my underwear loses all effectiveness. My phone falls to the mattress as I gasp loudly, my hands grasping the broad shoulders I was admiring earlier. He feels strong and capable and solid, and I suddenly wish I weren’t the only one losing clothes. That I could see him naked too.

His thumb is circling my clit now, heat gathering deep in my pelvis as nerve endings spark alive in response to his touch. Forget the paddles to my heart. This feels like a constant flow of electricity. I’m embarrassed by how slick I am, but it’s rapidly replaced by satisfaction when he fills me with two fingers. And still, I want—need—more.

The pleasure escalates, but I’m still racing toward the peak at the same speed. He’s doing all the work, yet my body wants to participate. Is desperate to chase the high even if the destination is inevitable.

Nothing’s ever feltthisinevitable. Maybe that’s why I keep choosing wrong.

My eyes flutter closed, and I bite my bottom lip hard, silencing the moan that’s struggling to escape.

The thumb of the hand that’s not busy making my thighs tremble tugs my lip free.

My eyes fly open, meeting his intense gaze. Kit’s eyes are a fathomless, focused blue. The same shade as the hottest point of a flame.

“None of that, Monty. I want to hear how much you love having my hands on you.Inyou.”

He soundssoarrogant.

I wait for the familiar urge to argue, but it never appears. I’m finished fighting him. In response, I bear down on his fingers as hard as I can.

“You’re so fucking wet,” Kit continues conversationally. “Alreadydripping for me. Have you been sitting here with dirty thoughts in that pretty head? Because mine are filthy around you. Earlier, when you went to the restroom, I thought about following you. About locking the door and pulling thatpewterdress up and fucking you while you held the sink. You came so hard, and you screamed my name. Are you going to scream my name, Monty?”

I don’t know what to focus on—where he’s touching me or what he’s saying. It all swirls around me like a maelstrom of pleasure, building and colliding and enveloping me entirely.

I don’tscreamhis name when I come, but I do say it really loud.

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