Page 2 of Riot Act
This can’t be happening.
This isPax.
How arehishands cupping and kneading my naked breasts?
It can’t behistongue burning a hot trail up the curve of my neck.
It can’t behisextremely hard cock, sliding over the slickness between my thighs, rubbing dizzyingly against my clit, applying a perfect amount of pressure, that feels so, so good…
I moan when he rocks against me, letting my head fall back against the rough trunk of the tree.
Itishim. Any second now, he’ll be inside me, and I’ll be getting fucked by the only guy I’ve ever loved. He lets out a tight, pained growl, rolling his hips against me again, again, again, the head of his erection coming dangerously close to the entrance of my pussy, and I let out a whimper—part fear, part anticipation.
He pulls back, though. Pulls back and rocks forward again and again, repeating the motion, rubbing himself against me, his teeth gouging into the skin of my collar bone, and I can’t breathe. I gasp and pant, only managing to pull down sips of the night air. How do people do this? How do they process all of these emotions? The sensations? The—
Pax slides a hand between our bodies and finds my clit, rolling the slippery, swollen bundle of nerves in a small, perfect circle. “Damn it. You’re so wet,” he groans. “You’re gonna feel fucking phenomenal on my dick.”
No.
No.
No, no, no.
Oh my god.
Nope.
I cannotfucking do this.
And just like that…
I’ve always been tall for a girl. I’ve never been particularly strong, though. How I shove all one hundred and ninety-five pounds of Pax’s six-foot-three, muscle-packed frame off of me, I’ll never know.
Pax grunts, staggering back, and I discover just how drunk I am when I can’t even focus on his features. Icanmake out the shaved head, and the elaborate, twisting ink that marks his skin. His pale grey eyes flash silver in the faint light given off by the moon. Everything else about him is hazy, though. Just a blur of beautiful, tanned muscle.
He's silent as the grave.
“I—I don’t—I can’t—” The stammering isn’t new. I’ve never been able to get a sentence out around this guy, but tonight I’m desperate to communicate. Pax is a lot of things and kind is not one of them. If I don’t find a way to play this off, I’ll be paying for this moment of weakness for the rest of our senior class. He’ll never let me live it down, and neither will his friends. I’ll be the laughingstock of the entire academy by tomorrow morning.
I didn’t even want to come to this stupid party in the first place, but the prospect of seeing Pax, being inside Riot House, walking around and witnessing where he lives… I was weak. I couldn’t resist, and now look at the mess I’ve gotten myself into.
“I’m sorry. I—”
Suddenly the very short black dress Pax peeled off me is back in his hands; he holds it out to me. “No stress. No biggg deal.” His voice is rough, his words slurred. He comes closer, and the casual tilt to his mouth is roguish—half a smile that looks very real and very unbothered by what’s just happened. He blinks; his pupils are so dilated that the silver of his irises is barely visible anymore. It’s as if he’s looking right through me. Like he’s hardly seeing me at all.
A jarring, awful understanding takes root. Unlike the last party that was held at Riot House, there were no giant bowls of ambiguous narcotics being passed around like candy tonight. There was plenty of hard liquor, though. I watched Pax shoot a whole bunch of it. I did the same, for fuck’s sake. He gave me two shots of whiskey himself. I’m definitely far drunker than I should be, but Pax is absolutely annihilated. Bending down, he tries to pick up his shirt and loses his balance. He nearly topples over into the leaf litter at our feet, and I see my opportunity.
I take it.
I run.
Tree branches whip at my bare skin. My heels are long gone. The rough ground bites into the soles of my feet. I can barely see six feet in front of my face, but I don’t stop. I charge blindly into the night, panting hard, fists pumping, whimpering every time I roll my ankle, knowing that I’m bleeding. Eventually, I stumble, sliding down an eight-foot-long slope, landing on my ass in a deep ditch, and I’m so tired and sore that I lie still for a second, blowing hard, staring up at a small panel of the night sky that’s visible through a window in the forest’s canopy overhead.
“Presley Maria Witton Chase,” I whisper out loud. “You aresofuckingfucked.”
It takes time to get my breath back. More time still to wriggle into the dress I somehow had the sense to keep hold of when I bolted, the fabric fisted tightly in my hand. Longer still to climb out of the ditch, which turns out to be a culvert beside the road that leads up to the academy. It’s four in the morning when I finally stagger up Wolf Hall’s front steps and into the main building.
My room is exactly how I left it—a bombsite, clothes everywhere, makeup everywhere. Evidence of just how nervous I was, getting ready for the party earlier, trying to make myself look good—but the mess is going to have to wait. I’m too exhausted to deal with any of it, so I kick a pathway to my bed and sweep the mounds of dresses and short skirts to the floor, not caring that my feet are caked with dirt and blood as I climb beneath my sheets.
