His finger slips down my stomach until he reaches my waist. Without unbuckling my jeans, Alex dips his hand past the waistband. It’s effortless how quickly he finds my clit. He strokes me through the thin material of my underwear, gently running the tips of his fingers over my bud.
He lets out a slow breath. “You’re soaking these panties, Sunshine.”
He moves lower, stroking my slit, the moving pressure edging me closer and closer to exploding. And when he roughly pushes my panties to the side and slips a finger inside my pussy, my head tips back with a gasp I can’t swallow.
His mouth is on me, brushing my jaw, then my throat, and he moves his fingers in and out of me.
“So fucking wet. I bet your pussy would feel real good wrapped around my cock.”
A strangled whimper is all I get out.
“You like this?” His voice drops lower. “Like me touching you even though you hate me.”
Another moan slips out before I can stop it.
“Maybe I should ruin you,” he whispers against my neck. “Fuck you against this rack until you’re crying. Until you forget your name.”
My body arches. I do hate him. I want to claw him open, make him pay for all the petty bullying. Take out my frustrations on him as he claims to want to do to me. Curse him for all the shit they’ve put me through.
But then he adds a second finger and hooks them until he finds my spot.
“Oh, fuck,” I groan. “I hate you.”
“Say it louder while you drip all over my hand.” His mouth grazes my ear, breath hot and ragged. His fingers curl deeper, faster, knuckle grazing bone. “Do you want me to fuck you into submission, to ruin you, to break you in half until you’re begging me to stop?”
“Yes!” I cry out. And I come, hard and violently, my body and breath fighting to find a rhythm. Alex doesn’t stop. He keeps fingering me like it’s the only thing he wants. My walls convulse, clenching around his hand in quick bursts. It’s not until my breath settles and my muscles relax that he pulls his hand from my pants.
Alex steps back, fingers slick, breath ragged. Then he sucks the two middle fingers into his mouth, savoring my juices.
“Fucking sweet.”
He releases my other hand, picks up my dry shirt from on top of the duffel bag, and signals for me to hold up my arms. I do as he wants, letting him put the shirt on my body. Alex puts more space between us; then he turns and leaves without a goodbye.
Not that I need one.
I stand there, my clothes too sensitive against my skin. In the distance, the shower sputters on. Alex continues with his routine, not a care in the world for what we just did… what he just did.
And me?
I’m left aroused, furious, and completely wrecked.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
BRYDEN (MOUNTAIN)
Before my boots even hit the pavement, I see my mother. Her arms are folded, braids perfectly tucked under her scarf, waiting with a permanent smile that nothing in this world has been able to erase.
It’s my favorite thing about her. Always happy, always kind. When the planet is actively burning down around us, she’s there with a hug, wisdom, and holding my favorite treat, frybread with zhiiwaagamizigan.
My father is with her, standing at her side with a hand at the small of her back. Forever the protector, always at her side, silently observing. They’re so opposite, almost like night and day, but they fit so perfectly. Mom is loud and fun-loving while Dad is calm and quiet. I guess I can thank him for mysunnydisposition.
Kai, my younger brother, notices me first, points in my direction, and speaks at a volume I can’t hear from here. My mother’s eyes find mine, and that smile of hers widens. They’re excited, and I’m happy they’re here. Knowing that my family will be in the stands keeps me grounded, keeps me focused.
“Bryden, my son,” Mom calls.
She holds her arms out to me, wrapping me into a hug onlya mother could give. It’s comforting, the familiarity of her perfume, the warmth in her embrace. I’ve missed this. The season has been stressful, the pressure mounting. But the payoff is near; all the hard work and late hours will have meant something once we win finals, then nationals—and next, get drafted.
“You look tired,” she says when we break apart and runs her hands over my arms like she’s checking me for injuries.
