Page 66 of Vile Bastards
I go still, my hand on the spine of a book, and then turn slowly back around to face him.
“I watched it over and over and over again. I fisted my dick, and I thought about you. I fantasized about fucking you in my car.”
I suck in a sharp inhale as he reaches down and grabs the fabric on the front of my shirt. Widow’s breath is a harsh, staccato beat, tremulous. Restrained. I reach up to put my hands over his and he pushes them back.
Our eyes meet.
“Why are you holding yourself back? If I wanted a bitch boy, there are dozens to choose from. You’re supposed to be—” I don’t even get to finish that sentence because Widow is wrenching the front of my shirt open and sending buttons flying. They ping off the metal shelves and bounce across the floor near my feet.
I release a surprised breath as Widow grabs the cups of my black lace bra and yanks them down, spilling my tits into his hot, calloused hands. Calloused, from working out. From wielding baseball bats. From fixing cars. A working man’s hands, and I want them all the hell over my body.
“You like that?” he asks me, stepping even closer, heat flaring in his gaze. “I can see it in your eyes: a rich boy could never really do it for you. You want someone from the wrong side of the tracks, a guy with dirty blood.”
We’re in the school library right now; this is obscene.
Also, it’s precisely why I like it.
At any moment, another student could walk back here (although it’s unlikely they’d be looking for reading material since this is the chemistry and biology section and all the books are like fifty years old). Mostly, this spot is used for drug deals (some of the books have cutouts on the inside to stash cash and goods) or it’s used for … fucking.
Widow runs his thumbs over the hard points of my nipples, kneading and squeezing the heavy mounds in his fingers as heat spirals in my core and I put most of my body weight on the metal cart behind me.
The wheels slip, and it goes rolling backward. I’d have fallen to the floor along with it if Widow hadn’t snatched me around the waist and yanked me forward, slamming our bodies together. He glances over his shoulder once, and I see it, that flicker of hesitation in his gaze.
He still doesn’t trust himself.
The trauma he endured as a child has etched itself into his heart and mind, and he doesn’t know how to let go, how to separate sex and desire from the horror he suffered. At least he’s touching me more freely now; I can appreciate progress.
But I want to see what happens when he comes undone.
“Someone like Lemon gets taken advantage of,” I whisper, and Widow goes stiff all over, his wild werewolf smell (like a fruit orchard under the full moon near the Black fucking Forest) mixes with the impossibly perfect scents of old pages and ink, of a bygone era that might soon cease to exist entirely.
Just a figment of a fragment of the past shoved into the metaverse as a kitschy curiosity.
I don’t want that life. I want to race real cars and read real books and fuck real boys.
Real men.
“Someone like me,” I continue, before Widow can bolt the way he always does, our gazes still locked in amorous contention. “Can handle whatever you can throw.”
Widow’s breathing picks up, to the point where I figure he’s either going to pass out or he’s going to break. And oh God, I want to see him break so goddamn badly. Break, snap, shatter, Widow. Do it. Just fucking do it.
A boy walks around the endcap of the shelf on my right, digging around in his pocket as he goes. He glances up just in time to see Widow turn to look at him over one shoulder. The boy’s eyes notice me first, bare breasts exposed, and he quickly averts his gaze to Widow.
Prescott high runs on primal blood and biology: girls mind girls while boys mind boys.
But also, this guy knows that if he gawps at my tits, I’ll kill ‘im.
Also … he seems to be acutely aware that Widow might murder him either way.
“Get out and make sure nobody else comes back here.” Widow’s voice is hard, sharp, and authoritative. I can feel it my blood, in my bones, in the way his grip tightens on my arm, and then he’s turning back around to face me.
The boy (his name is Fred Melnyk, I know fuckin’ everyone in this school) stumbles back around the corner, and I know then that we’ve got a dedicated lookout on our hands. If Fred fails, he knows what’ll happen to him. I won’t let him keep entering races and losing on purpose so that the girls will feel sorry for him and pet his hair.
