I turn my head to the side, overcome by the images riddled in my mind. All I can think about is Juliette on top of me, beneath me andinside me.
My hips involuntarily buck and I plunge two fingers inside my gaping hole. I'm so unbearably wet that my fingers practically slide in. My tightness feels so torturously good. Would she think that it feels good?
My skin feels scorching. My legs are rustling against the sheets at every ounce of pleasure that pools deep inside me. I lift my left hand—which is currently doing nothing—to my neck and wrap it around it.
I squeeze my neck at every ripple of pleasure that violently shakes my body. My fingers are starting to hurt from the rough way that I'm pounding them inside of me, but I can't stop. Not when I'm so close or when all I can think about is Juliette inside me.
I'm so close. I'm pushing so deeply into myself harder and faster as I take my other hand away from my neck and start circling my clit again. My movements are erratic and quick
I'm so close that I can already taste the bliss.
All I have to do to push me over the edge is open my eyes. The minute I do, I start envisioning Juliette on top of me, pulling me into a deep kiss, her tongue sliding in my mouth as she runs her hands through my hair.
Oh my God.
My insides tighten up and clench around my fingers. My legs shake, my chest convulses, and I scream like I never have before. I feel that all-too-familiar tingle hitting the back of my brain, sending waves through my entire body.
Ohno.
Chapter EIGHT
J u l i e t t e
Thesound of classical musical entrances my ears as I swirl the red wine in my glass. It's the 26th of October today—my birthday. I've just turned eighteen.
I spent the morning with Kai who took me to breakfast after my cheerleading practice and now, I’m with my mother for lunch. She already bought me a boatload of gifts; no doubt she probably picked them out from some random catalogue.
I think she is under the impression that this wine is the first time I've ever consumed alcohol. Or at least she thought it was, until I downed the glass of wine without grimacing.
“I would like the steak tartare and anotherbottle of the Château Cheval Blanc.” My mother orders politely. The waitress starts writing it down, then her eyes shift to mine.
“What would you like miss?” the waitress questions me politely as I try my best not to stare for too long into her dark blue eyes.
I scan the menu lightly before saying, “I would like the lobster please.” The waitress nods and reiterates our order before walking away after confirming it.
This restaurant is so stifling, although it's quite a high-end place, which I'm used to.
The sound of the live piano is deafening, but not nearly as loud as the sound of clanging utensils. I wish the music could drown the sound of spoiled teenagers complaining about their allowances.
“How are you, darling?” my mother questions, gazing at me with a soft smile.
I like her when she's like this; calm and collected. It's so rare for her to be attentive to me these days, so I appreciate every second.
“Good.” I smile lightly. “My grades in biology are improving.” For once, I'm actually not lying to my mother about my grades.
“Is Adaline still tutoring you?” she questions quietly, her fingers firmly gripping her wine glass. Just like that, the mood shifts. What I thought was going to be a normal outing is clearly just an interrogation.
I nod, taking a sip of my wine. “Yes, she is.”
Talking about Adaline reminds me of that day in the locker room. It had me rattled completely. I'm not sure what was about to happen before her friends walked in. I've avoided even thinking about it.
Regardless, I've ceased my torture on her since that day. We've honestly just fallen back into our usual routine of bickering. While it's still bothersome, it's not as tumultuous as it was after what happened with my mother.
Even though we are back to our usual routine, she has still continued to tutor me over email for the last few weeks, rather than in person. I just can't have her back in my home; it reminds me that she knows about my father.
“Has she… told anyone?” my mother asks in a hushed whisper, looking around to see if anyone is listening to our conversation. I shake my head, drinking my wine. She’s asked me this same question every single week since Adaline ambushed her.
It's clear that my mother is scared, terrified even, that people will find out about my father. Everyone was under the impression that the divorce was amicable.
