Page 63 of Fuckboy Psychos (Scarlett Force 1)
A quick glance in the mirror shows the blood on my face. I reach back and wrench the t-shirt over my head, swiping it off before tossing it in the laundry hamper, and then I put my palms flat on the old, worn piece of furniture and stare into the mirror at my expression.
It’s dark, thunderous, almost scary. And not just because I lost tonight or because of what it means.
Scarlett Force is now off-limits, and the taboo always seems to hold a certain sort of sway over me. I shove back from the dresser and grab the plastic tote that holds all of my bathroom shit, storming down the hallway in a rage.
God forbid any other asshole in here dares to take a shower while I’m in the room. I’ve made it perfectly clear that I don’t—that I won’t—share with anyone else. My time is mine alone, and I’m willing to fight for it.
Luckily, at this time of night on a Friday, it’s empty. Most of the guys are still out, eking out every last second before curfew. They won’t be back for at least another hour or so.
I take advantage of that, starting the shower and letting the water run hot as I kick off my muddy boots and jeans, stepping beneath it and scrubbing at my face vigorously with both hands.
“You will never fuck Scarlett Force.”
My teeth grit again, and that wild rage sweeps over me.
I hate that, that I can get this worked up over a girl that I don’t even know.
Sex is a curse. I’m convinced of it. It’s disgusting. Primeval. Base. Almost alien.
It makes people do horrible, unspeakable things.
So why is my cock rock-hard, and why is my hand squeezing the base of it and stroking? Why are my balls so tight? Why do I feel like I’m going to explode and spray the wall of this tiled shower with cum?
“Fuck!” I scream, releasing my dick and ignoring the ache in it, the need, the almost blinding curiosity of what it might feel like to slide into someone like Scarlett Force, hear her moan my name the way she moaned Bohnes’.
I can’t get it out of my head, her underneath, him on top, their pelvises grinding away, their mouths frantic and hungry as they kissed with too much tongue. Because even though he did warn me last week, I watched anyway.
I won’t be told what to do by anyone, least of all someone that’s fucking Scarlett Force on the regular.
Bohnes cornered me in the bathroom last week, dressed in a fucking hoodie that was ripped in half, showing off the muscles in the lower half of his torso, like he had something to prove. Said he doesn’t like to be watched. More importantly, he doesn’t want anyone to watch his girl.
The thing is, I’m not sure that Scarlett sees herself as his in the slightest.
Not only does she call him a fuckboy more often than I’d ever allow, but … the way she looks at me. The way she bends over in the library. And then … there’s that.
The incident.
The incident that had me screaming and digging the heels of my hands into my eyes to keep from having a fit. Forty-nine percent of me was certain that I should murder her for what she did … the rest was thrilled.
The rest, that pesky fifty-one percent, is what convinces me to wash my hair quickly, brush my teeth, soap my pits, and then head back down the hall with a towel around my waist. I make sure my door is locked and my TV—the shitty ancient crapbox from thirty-years ago—is blasting a black-and-white movie.
It’s some mobster film that has great cars in it but which I ignore as I take my phone—the one I bought with the last of my remaining money—and pull up the video from the dashcam that I installed in the Stingray.
There she is, red-cheeked and panting, full mouth slightly parted, fingers diving into her greedy pussy. I lay back on the bed and get some lube from my nightstand drawer, dripping it across my aching shaft, and then I fist myself and fuck my hand while I watch.
I watch the video over and over again, just like I’ve been doing all week, jerking myself off more times in a single night than I did in all my years of juvie. Even as I’m cleaning myself off with a wad of tissues, I’m grossed out.
Grossed out by the juice she purposefully left in my car, grossed out by my reaction to it, grossed out by the white fluid leaking from the tip of my dick.
I lean back into my pillows and close my eyes, panting as I struggle to get control of myself. Who the fuck am I turning into?
Not my uncle. I will never be my uncle. Scarlett is a red-blooded woman with full curves, far past puberty, with flawless skin and crow-black hair that falls right down to that plump, round ass of hers …
