Page 9 of Riot (Mayhem 2)

When he drills his tongue into me like an aggressive anteater, I yelp, and he apparently takes this as encouragement. More drilling. More weird looks at the ceiling. I close my eyes and try to enjoy it, but my thoughts are instantly on Joel. When Joel does this, it’s slow and teasing and he savors every bit of me.

I’m just beginning to get turned on when Aiden says, “Do you like that?”

I ignore him and try to bring the image of Joel back into my mind. The way his hands capture mine when I’m so out of my mind with lust I don’t know what to do with them. How strong his arms feel when he wraps them around my middle and refuses to let me wiggle away from him.

“Mm, do you like that?” Aiden asks again. If he had any decency at all, he would STOP TALKING.

“Yeah,” I lie, wishing he would shut up. He laps away, and I imagine the way Joel’s tongue does tiny little flicks against the most sensitive parts of me.

The drilling starts again, and Aiden asks me for the third freaking time if I “like that.”

“YES!” I shout, realizing he’s not going to be quiet long enough to let me get myself anywhere near orgasm.

Which means I’ll have to fake it or suffer through more cow-tonguing, puppy-lapping, and anteater-drilling.

“Oh,” I say, bucking my hips and rolling my eyes simultaneously. “Oh God.” I put on a porno-worthy performance and pull him to my face. When he starts to lean down to kiss me again, I hastily push against his shoulders and roll him onto his back. If he shoves that tongue inside my mouth one more time, I’m pretty sure I’ll choke and die. And with the way this night has been going, that doesn’t sound too terrible.

I straddle his hips and lower myself onto him, and he moans loud enough to wake up the entire neighborhood. Great. I can already tell that if I don’t hurry, he’s going to climax before I do and then I’ll be on my own.

I brace my hands on his chest so I can start moving up and down on him, but whereas Joel’s body is lean and toned, Aiden’s is mushy-soft. I slide my hands to the sides of his neck and hold there instead, but he’s sweaty and it feels like petting a buttered porpoise, so I wipe my palms on his pillow and sit back. With nowhere to put my hands, I thread them into my own hair. I manage to move up and down only one and a half more times before Aiden moans and releases into me and I realize the mistake I’ve made. I lower my hands, not sure if I should feel flattered that the sight of me was enough to make him orgasm, or so outraged that I need to strangle him before packing up my things and going on the run.

“That was awesome,” he pants, and I unstraddle him to roll onto my side. He wraps his arm around me, which I tolerate only because I really don’t want to be alone tonight.

“You’re amazing,” he tells me, and I wish I could manage a smile or at least believe him, but I can’t.

I WAKE WHEN it’s still dark outside, to nothing but utter silence. There’s a heavy arm around me and there’s a face buried in my hair, but there’s no snoring in my ear, and that disappointing realization makes me squeeze my eyes shut and gnaw on the inside of my lip. With a heavy sigh, I sneak out from beneath the arm, gather my clothes off the floor, and slip them back on. I don’t bother casting a second glance at the stranger passed out on the bed before tiptoeing across his room. I learned the art of sneaking out the first time my dad tried to ground me when I was thirteen years old. By the time I got my license, I was an expert.

I turn the knob to Aiden’s apartment as carefully as if I were disarming a bomb. Then I gently push the door open, escape onto the front porch, and close the door behind me. I don’t release the knob until the door is all the way closed, when I very slowly allow it to turn back to its normal position.

In the parking lot, I rest my forehead on my steering wheel, wishing I had picked a guy up from a bar instead of from work. At least then I could’ve gotten sloppy drunk and still be passed out right now. Instead, I’m sober and awake with too much on my mind.

Against my better judgment, I drive home, shower and change, pick up coffee, and drive to Adam’s. I’m dressed in a killer top, skirt, and heels combo with all intentions of making Joel sorry he didn’t call me last night, but sitting in the parking lot staring at my reflection in my rearview mirror, all I can see is the purple exhaustion under my eyes and the pale hue of my skin. I look just like my mother. With a disgusted grunt, I text Rowan instead of going up.

Driving you to school today. In parking lot. Hurry up.

While waiting, I cake on more makeup and contort my face in the mirror, trying to distinguish myself from the woman who cheated on my dad and left him a blubbering mess. I have her brown eyes, her dark hair, her olive skin. It’s an arsenal of weaponry. She used hers to capture my father’s heart and then destroy it. I use mine to ensure that no one ever does the same to me. I’ll never have to rely on one person for love or affection because I can get it from anyone.

Well, almost anyone.

Fifteen minutes later, my head is resting against the window and I’m singing a girl-power song when Rowan slides into my passenger seat. I turn down the music, and she gives me a questioning look I have no desire to answer.

“Want to talk about it?” she asks, buckling her seat belt as I back my car out of its spot.

“Talk about what?”

“Why you’re picking me up on a Thursday morning?”

“Because I woke up early.”

“Then let’s talk about why you didn’t come up to the apartment.”