He thinks he left me unsatisfied. He has no idea of the strength of the orgasm that hit on his first thrust inside me. The orgasm that had been building, building, building from the moment he forced me to my knees and made me obey.
Just like the one I plan to have when he leaves, tucked alone in my room with my fingers and my vibrant pulse of memories.
That’s the safest way to enjoy him. The only safe way.
“Sorry,” Lachlan says as he pulls to the curb and my hand tenses on the handle, ready to push it open the minute it stops. “I wasn’t thinking. I should have let you drive.”
I want him so much, but I won’t play second fiddle. Not again. I’ve been this girl before.
When it started with Jack, I didn’t mind the sneaking around, the hiding, the secrets. It was all so exciting; I didn’t stop to question where it might lead. I didn’t comprehend how much joy it would rip away until it got so bad, I would’ve crawled over broken glass to leave.
I’d take public humiliation any day over being made to hide, to steal moments when they aren’t given willingly. Private shame is so much worse. Like an invasive fungus, it flourishes in the dark.
I didn’t like it when I was with Jack. I won’t enjoy it with Lachlan. And that’s without adding in who he is, who his father is, who hisgirlfriend’sfather is.
He smiles and I pause, heart thumping, half-hoping he’ll come up with a different solution than my ultimatum gave him.
Instead, he looks at me expectantly, waiting for me to get out of his car.
“Don’t worry,” he says when I don’t move. “Nothing like what happened today will happen again. I promise.” He gives me a long, slow smile that takes so long to develop, my lungs almost run out of air before it’s done. “We’ll just stay out of each other’s way.”
It’s what I asked for. Why does it feel so shitty to have my request granted?
He angles his face away, offering me a gorgeous quarter profile that makes the inside of my head all crunchy.
What are you doing? When the most powerful boy in school wants to fuck you on the regular, you let him.
I fumble for the doorhandle, my foot hitting the curb at the wrong angle so my leg twists, but I still put weight on it, more interested in removing myself from the situation than I care about the pain.
When I shut the door, I edge towards the window, meaning to utter another limp platitude but Lachlan’s gone in a squeal of tyres before I can say anything. I stare after him, blinking when he turns the corner, out of sight.
The minute I head inside, it’s immediately obvious that Dad isn’t there. He’s left my dinner on a plate in the fridge, ready to microwave. Chicken fried rice with extra vegetables, one of the three dishes he circulates.
I put together our lunches in return, setting them ready to grab and go in the morning. Then I sit and eat by myself, staring blankly at the wall, my mind resetting after the catalogue of disasters that peppered my day.
It strays to Lachlan. I can’t work him out. Oscillating between cruel and kind until I have whiplash. The few interactions I’ve had with him feature so strongly in my recollections that it seems impossible I’ve known him such a short time.
His face is so clear in my mind I could draw him from memory. Draw the strange smile and the sad light he has in his eyes when he thinks no one is watching.
Which I shouldn’t be thinking about at all. If there’s a girl out there who could wipe away that sadness, it’s not me. He’s still going out with someone else and I’m not a cheat.
Except when you let him fuck you against the wall.
Oh, yes. Except for that.
As I clean my dishes, my thoughts turn to Dad. I’d like to think he’s doing an extra shift at work just like the scrawled note on the bench says. Logic points me towards a different scenario.
I’ve put it off for almost a fortnight, but I know I shouldn’t put it off any longer. Dad needs help and I don’t know how to provide it.
I call his sponsor, biting my cheek until Spencer answers the phone on the fourth ring with a cheery, “Hello.”
When I introduce myself, there’s a long pause and I worry about another way to explain who I am because he obviously hasn’t made the connection. Then his voice comes back on the line, apologetic.
“How can I help you, George?”
“Dad’s out g-g-g… Dad needs your help.”
Another pause, then I can hear the background noise diminish. Good. He’s gone somewhere quiet so we can talk, and he can help me. I close my eyes in relief. An emotion that’s short-lived.
