Sick.
“I’m so sorry,” she mumbles as I lean to the side, to get away from her, to slip off the bed. “I loved your mother. I never wanted to hurt her.”
Rage envelops me. How dare she make that claim after what she did? Does she think I believe her words when she’s shown me time and time again that she’s an emotionless black hole?
The words curdle inside me, and I force myself to my feet, wandering over to snap the light on, my eyes getting one frame of her glistening pussy before she drags her shorts and pants up, quickly fastening the drool-worthy sight away.
She sits up and I shake my head. My body aches like it got a better workout than yesterday at practice. Stupid but my heart thumps so strongly I can see the vibration of its movement shimmering across my chest.
The condom wilts off my dick like a wad of used gladwrap. Sad. Pathetic.
Her eyes travel to the same sight as I walk back towards her, standing in front of her. “Happy?” I snarl, grabbing it firmly and sliding it off in one smooth motion.
I clutch her chin with my opposite hand, squeezing her mouth open like it’s an orange juice spout, upending the condom into it as her eyes widen in distress.
“Suck it down.” My voice is strange, so rough it doesn’t sound a thing like me as my hand squeezes out the residual mess. “Swallow every drop.”
Instead, her tongue pushes it out of her mouth, the exquisite mess dripping over her pouty lips, dribbling down her chin until my thumb catches it, scooping it back where it belongs.
When she tries to twist away, I drop the condom on the floor and hold her steady with both hands, one working her throat to make sure she takes it down.
Her eyelashes clump with tears, whites bloodshot as she glares at me, absolutely stunning. Her expression is as full of hate as her mouth is full of my cum, pouring over the sides.
“Lick your lips, baby,” I croon as my forefinger stalls another spill and scrapes it back into her mouth. “You’re making a mess.”
She stamps her foot down on mine, using the surprise attack to jump to her feet and twist away. “You fucking arsehole,” she rages, forgetting all about trying to be quiet as anger overtakes her. “It was for your benefit, too.”
She lunges for the door, and I follow her, tugging her back. The looseness of her muscles infuriates me—I want her resistant, fighting, lunging to get away—and in retaliation I press her against the wall by her throat, bending until my forehead touches hers, feeling as much as hearing as she struggles to inhale.
I could kill her right now. Put an end to this craziness that set fire to my adolescence, that seems determined to follow me into adulthood.
I hate her. I want her. This can never happen again.
My body is ruined with cravings; each time I touch her they claw deeper. I can’t keep drinking from her well, falling victim to her charms. Can’t keep inhaling the intoxicating scent of her skin until I crawl with need.
My fingers tighten around her throat, tighter, tighter, until I pull my head back from the wall and stare into her eyes.
She can’t breathe. I can feel the useless pull of her throat muscles against my hand.
She can’t breathe but there’s no panic in her gaze.
While her eyes lock with mine, she puts her fingers on top of the hand I have crushing her throat and squeezes it, forcing it harder against her windpipe, cutting off any last hope of air.
A sob catches deep in my chest as I watch her lips swell from the pressure, see the tip of her tongue as it pushes from her mouth.
This girl who was my first crush. Back when I was normal. Before she split open my life and let the darkness flood into me. Turning my harmless flirtation into something twisted, something evil, an obsession that I can’t control.
Esme isn’t the only one who lost friends. Mine fell away in the relentless drive to find her, follow her, pursue her the only way I could. Lost in the hours I physically pushed myself to become better, to turn my unremarkable talents into a sought commodity, all for a chance to fall down the rabbit hole behind her, tumbling into a new wonderland, snapping and snarling.
This girl who would rather help me kill her than tell me what I want to know.
I shake off her hold and twist away, grabbing for the door, tugging at the handle until I remember I locked it, fumbling with the key until I can yank it open, spilling through the gap. Gasping for air as though I’m the one who was choked.
My feet stumble, my walk a zigzag that takes to the end of the corridor to straighten into a line.
I keep my head down, shoulders hunching in the universal gesture of ‘don’t bother me’ as I pass the open door to the common room, desperate to get outside, to replenish my heaving lungs with the cooling air of dusk.
I can’t imagine how I look, what the students who pass by me, giving a wide berth, think. With my head down, I cross the quad, picking up speed with every step, making it to the running track.
