A Million Kisses in Your Lifetime(2)

Until she was the last virgin standing in the senior class.

“You waste your time with that one, Lancaster,” says my other closest friend, Malcolm. The fucker is richer than God and from London, so all the girls on campus throw their panties at him, thanks to his British accent. He doesn’t even have to ask. “She’s a right prude and you know it.”

“That’s half the reason he wants her,” Ezra cracks, knowing my truth. “He’s dying to corrupt her. Steal all her firsts from that mythical future husband she’ll have one day. The one who won’t give a shit if she’s a virgin or not.”

My friend isn’t wrong. That’s exactly what I want to do. Just to say I can. Why save yourself for some fake man who will do nothing but disappoint you on your wedding night?

So damn foolish.

Malcolm contemplates Wren as she stops and talks to a cluster of girls, all of them younger than her. Each of them fluttering around her as if she’s their mama bird and they’re all her dependent babies, eager for a scrap of attention from her.

“Wouldn’t mind having a go at her either,” Malcolm murmurs, his gaze narrowing as he continues staring at her.

I send him a murderous look. “Touch her and you’re fucking dead.”

He throws back his head and laughs. “Please. I’m not interested in virgins. I prefer my women to have a little experience.”

“Definitely don’t like it when they’re scared of a penis,” Ezra adds, clutching his junk for emphasis.

Ignoring their laughter, I refocus on Wren, my gaze wandering the length of her. Navy jacket with the Lancaster crest on it, white button-up shirt beneath, her full tits straining against the fabric. Pleated plaid skirt that hits her just above the knee. Always modest, our Wren. The white socks with the little ruffle, the Doc Marten Mary Janes on her feet.

Her one sign of rebellion—albeit a minor one. Those shoes sent the girls of Lancaster Prep into an absolute tailspin when she showed up to school wearing them, the day we came back from winter break our freshman year. It threw the girls off. Everyone at Lancaster wore loafers. It was an unspoken rule.

Until Wren.

By the beginning of our sophomore year, almost every fucking girl in attendance at Lancaster had Mary Janes on their feet, Doc Marten and other brands too. Funny how not a one of them wearing those shoes affect me the way Wren does.

The seemingly innocent shoes and little girl socks. The plaid skirt and flushed cheeks and the way she’s always walking around campus at lunch or after school with a fucking lollipop in her mouth, her lips juicy red from the candy. I see her with a Blow Pop between her lips and all I can imagine is Wren on her knees in front of me. Her hand wrapped around my cock as she guides it into her welcoming mouth, that bullshit ring, her precious daddy gave her, twinkling in the light.

That’s what I want. Wren on her knees, begging for my dick. Crying for it when I reject her. Because I will reject her eventually. I don’t do relationships. They’re a vulnerability I don’t need. I see the way my father has treated my older brothers when they’ve brought women home to meet the family. Grant and his girlfriend, who actually works for him—Father made a pass at her, of course. My other brother Finn doesn’t even bother bringing a woman around the family.

Not that I can blame him.

And then there’s my sister, Charlotte. Our father sold her to the highest bidder and now she’s married to a man she doesn’t even know. He’s a decent guy, but shit.

No way am I going to let my father meddle in my relationships. Best way to avoid that?

Don’t have one.

I think of my cousin, Whit. How he was embroiled in a minor scandal during his senior year at Lancaster Prep with a girl who he’s now about to marry. They even have a child—out of wedlock, the ultimate scandal for a Lancaster. My own mother calls Whit’s future wife absolute trash, but that’s what happens to a family like us. Our reputation precedes us, and sometimes it ends up getting tarnished.

A lot of the time it does.

And Whit’s fiancé isn’t trash. She’s in love with him, and no one tolerates his shit like Summer.

Wren draws closer and I stand up straighter, trying to meet her gaze, but as usual, she refuses to look at me. I almost laugh when she says good morning to Malcolm. To Ezra.

She doesn’t say a damn word to me as she walks past, entering the building without a backward glance, followed by the younger girls who all shoot me a look, big doe eyes, every single one of them.

The moment the door slams shut, Ezra starts laughing once more, slapping his knee for emphasis.

“You’ve been trying to catch that girl’s attention for how long, and she still ignores your ass? Give it up.”

The challenge is what drives me on, don’t they see? Don’t they get it?

“She’s having a party, you know,” Malcolm says once Ezra’s laughter has died.

“For what?” I ask irritably.

“Her birthday. Jesus.” Malcolm shakes his head. “For someone who’s supposedly obsessed with Wren Beaumont, you don’t know much about her at all, do you?”

“I’m not obsessed.” I push away from the pillar and go and stand closer to my friends, needing every detail. “When is this party?”

We’re three weeks from winter break, in the throes of working on projects and preparing for finals for our last fall semester as seniors, and we’re already exhausted. I’m over busting my ass for grades that don’t matter since I have zero plans on going to college once I graduate. I’ve come into the first of three trust funds when I turned eighteen in September. Plus, my brothers want me to work for them at their real estate firm. Why go to college when I can just work toward my real estate license and then conquer the world selling luxury homes or giant corporations? My brothers have both residential and commercial divisions.