Secret Obsession: Chapter 26

Our week progresses as follows:

Wake up. Shower (alone and in peace, thank you very much). Get dressed in whatever outfit Miles picks, with some slight tweaks that either set his expression on edge or pass by undetected until later. Get driven to campus. Go to classes (including that drawing class that I now share with Miles and meeting him between my morning Monday and Wednesday classes, where he brings me a coffee just the way I like it. Every. Single. Time.).

Try to avoid the staring and whispering of everyone else in the freaking school. Slip away to go teach singing in the Crown Point Arts building, then hurry back to the library like I was there all along.

Eat dinner. Don’t drink. Avoid Miles, until he’s inside me in bed and it’s impossible to ignore him. Avoid Violet, because if I told her what I’m letting Miles do to me, she’d be pissed. Then Greyson would get involved, and he’d either pick her side or his friend’s. And I don’t really want to test that when they’ve just figured their shit out.

I don’t want to think about Miles’ dick.

I really, really don’t.

But… fuck, I am. All the time. I think about what it would taste like, what it would feel like in my hand. He hasn’t done anything to make me do anything to it, except slide it inside me from behind when I’m on the cusp of sleep.

I’d tried to take a nap the other day, and I’d lain in bed and flopped around, my insides aching.

He’s messing with my head. And at the same time, I crave it. I want to know what he wants me to do, or else I don’t know what to do.

Isn’t that fucked up?

I should know what I want.

And yet, sifting through desire and want and need is overwhelming.

So I don’t, and he does.

The stares are getting worse. All around campus, people whisper about me as the brother-hopper. Never mind that plenty of girls have probably fucked or blown both of them. I’m the whore because I jumped into a relationship with one and got played like a fool, and now I’m with the other.

But because of Miles, no one says anything to me. Just around me. About me. And it’s getting harder to ignore them.

I blew off the detective on Tuesday. I called her up and left a message right after my Crime Fiction class, lamenting that we were assigned a paper due the next class, and I couldn’t make it. That was before I hustled across Crown Point to teach the brats how to sing.

“You’re coming to the game,” Miles announces, dropping down into the seat beside me.

Dining hall. Lunch, Friday afternoon. My Crime Fiction class is in an hour, and I think Miles has a class at that time, too.

He reaches for my hand and runs his thumb across my palm. “Willow, say yes.”

“Yes,” I reply automatically.

And then I wince, and I jerk out of his hold.

“I mean, no.” I glare at him. “I’m not going to a game with you.”

He shrugs. “You wouldn’t go with me. I’m playing. You’d go with Violet and Aspen and her other friend, whatever her name is.”

“Thalia.”

He snaps and points at me. “That’s it. You’ll go with Violet and Aspen and Thalia, and you’ll sit right behind the players’ benches, so I don’t have to worry about you.”

“And if I decide…” I cast my gaze around, then back to him. “If I decide, ‘Hey, you know what? I think I like this other team better. Maybe I’ll wear their jersey and—’”

“You’ll wear what I say you’re going to wear,” Miles replies. “Coach wants to give our second goalie some ice time tonight, so I’ll be able to keep an eye on you, too.”

“I don’t like it.”

“No one asked you to like it.”

“I don’t want to go. Hockey is my least favorite thing about you.”

Miles laughs. He laughs. Tips back in his chair, throws his head back, and belly laughs.

“I’m serious,” I snap.

“Oh, I know,” he says once he’s calmed down enough to breathe normally. “And that means there are pieces of me that you do like.”

I cross my arms. “You’re a piece of work, you know that? How much ego—”

“A lot of fucking ego.” He smirks. “But I think it works out for us.”

I sigh. “Yeah?”

“Yeah. Meet me at the house before the game. Five o’clock.” He eyes me and rises. “Don’t be late.”

I’m never late.

But… I definitely want to be late. To push his buttons or whatever. Because it seems to be the only interesting thing happening to me lately.

He comes around and presses his lips to my temple. “Wake up, wild girl.”

My brows furrow. “I’m not sleeping.”

He straightens, and I swear, his expression is almost wistful. Or… regretful?

Either way, I’m treated to a nice view of his ass as he walks away.

It’s 5:12 p.m.

I walk in through the front door of the hockey house, my nerves racing. The game starts at seven. He’s due to be at the arena at 5:30 or something like that. So my bold lateness is going to be an issue, I can already tell.

It’s dark in the house and unusually silent. I haven’t once thought of it as mine.

Mine is a crime scene.

I sense him a split second before he grabs me, and I whirl around. Except it isn’t Miles’ face staring down at me—it’s a mask. The same Scream one that Steele tormented Aspen with months ago. I know, because she took a little pride in showing us after the fact. In hushed tones, she told us about their little game of chase.

And I swore that I’d never be chased like that. No fucking way.

But that doesn’t mean my knees aren’t trembling at the sight of it in front of me.

Miles isn’t wearing a shirt. He’s got low-slung sweatpants on and sneakers. That’s it. I lick my lips at the sight.

“You’re late.” It’s his voice behind the mask, at least.

I shiver.

“I was going to go easy on you.” He pulls something from his pocket and tosses it to me. “But now…”

I look down at the odd-shaped thing in my hand.

“What is this?”

“Turn around,” he murmurs.

“Take the mask off,” I demand.

He chuckles and ignores that. Instead, he grabs my hand and yanks me around, dragging me to the couch. He bends me over the back of it, my arms trapped behind me. Cold cuffs are locked around my wrists, keeping them at the small of my back. He lifts the object from my fingers.

A moment later, he’s unbuttoning my jeans and dragging them down.

“What is this?” I ask, shifting my weight.

He kicks my legs wider, and something cool hits my ass. It drips down my crack, and I close my eyes. I squeeze them tighter when something touches my ass.

The object?

“Handy little toy, this plug,” Miles says in my ear.

The plastic mask touches my jaw. He works the toy deeper, and I try to relax my muscles. Otherwise it’ll just fucking hurt more than it already does. He pushes it in another inch, then draws it out. He fucks me with it, his body pressing down on mine.

I turn my head and look him in the eye. Through the shadows of the creepy fucking mask. Just blue on blue, me to him.

“Tonight, Willow. Tonight we wake you up for good.”

He pushes the plug all the way in, and my lips part as my muscles tense and close around it. When I straighten, it shifts inside me. It’s foreign and sets me off-balance, but Miles ignores it. He pulls up my underwear and jeans—again with his fucking briefs instead of anything I own—and reaches around me to do up my zipper and button.

I curl my fingers into the front of his sweatpants, flexing against his hard-on. My knees go a little weak, but he’s right there. Keeping me up. He undoes the cuffs and releases me. The mask keeps my heart beating faster. I reach up and pull it off his face, revealing his scruff and his intense glower and his ticking jaw.

I reach for that jaw.

And then the plug comes to life.

It buzzes, and I jump out of my skin.

He grasps my forearms, keeping me upright. I arch away from the vibrations and inadvertently press myself to his body. Where his hard cock strains to greet me through his sweatpants.

“What the fuck is this?”

“Something to remember me by.”

He shows me the remote in his hand, clicking a button. The vibrations die, leaving me panting. I don’t know if I like it or hate it, but I glare at him all the same.

He pats my ass. “We gotta go. You can do your makeup or whatever at the arena, but I need to keep my eye on you.”

Great.