Stain (Stain #1)(51)

But then, who the f*ck am I kidding? I do something as simple as close my eyes and there she is. She’s become my first, second, and last thought. I’m not even sure how or when the f*ck it happened either. But I can’t stop thinking about her. Beautiful, sensual, and so damn innocent. I’m torn between wanting to f*ck her, protect her, and locking her away somewhere like some deranged psychopath and never letting her out of my sight. Right now though, with my dick in hand, growing harder at the thought of her plump little mouth and her tight little cunt, the urge to f*ck her is stronger than anything.

I’m thinking about the art room, imagining how hot and willing she’d been. If I hadn’t stopped, I know she would’ve let me climb on top of her on that table and spread her beautiful golden thighs for me. She would’ve begged for it, and I would’ve given it to her exactly how she wanted it.

I work my hand around my dick, use a little soap to ease my strokes, and with her name dragging from the deepest, most possessive part of me, I come in long, milky spurts that leave me drained but not nearly satisfied. It’s pent up frustration swirling down the drain. But I can still feel its grip around my throat. I’m barely breathing when all I want to do right now is have her here in front of me so I can claim her. But she’s not here. And I’m the pathetic prick standing here alone pining for her. What the f*ck is she doing to me?

“God damn it!” I scream, punching the already loose tile of the shower wall. This bullshit has to stop.

In my room, I grab a pair of clean jeans and a shirt and put them on. The bag of salt and vinegar chips I left on my dresser yesterday makes for an adequate afternoon lunch. I take a seat at my desk in front of my laptop thinking I’ll get some work done to distract myself. Edit some porn. Make my white ass look good. Not even three minutes into one of my scenes with a blond-haired chic and my mind drifts to Aylee. I want to feel her, taste her. She doesn’t make fake noises for an audience, instead, she moans just for me. I want my dirty mouth on every f*cking part of her. I want her face in front of me so I can see when I make her come. But her eyes scare the shit out of me. They see right through me. Through my bullshit. Make me want to sink so deep inside of her that I forget what it is to be alone. Fuck.

I’m on my feet in a flash. I look down and as hard as I am right now, my dick could probably hammer a nail into a two-by-four. Damn it, it’s like I’ve never been inside * before. As if I think about her for a second and in turn feel like I’m popping back an entire bottle of Viagra. It’s not even just about f*cking her either. My dick is not the only part reacting to her.

I’m worried about her and it’s been eating me up wondering if her old man hit her again. I’ll confess I’ve taken a drive or two out to her neighborhood. The first time was the day after the rave, after dropping her off at her friend’s house. I drove out that Saturday night and sat about a block away from her house for a good hour before I realized how much of a creeper I was being and drove my ass back home.

I thought it’d been a onetime thing. I gave into the impulse to check on her Sunday night, too, and I thought that would’ve taken care of whatever it was I’d been feeling. But that feeling is back again, and it’s a screaming urge right in the middle of my chest, an open wound that seems to only be getting bigger every second I remain away from her. It’s not going away either. I’ve been f*cking lying to myself. I’m already in motion before I even register my next thought fully. Keys, watch, wallet, jacket, socks, and boots, I grab them all as I move with purpose, getting dressed as I rush to the damn door. I’m out the door and downstairs in a flash. School’s going to end soon. I’m hoping to catch her before she leaves for the day.





Chapter 20


Aylee


I don’t see or hear from him for days after what happened in the art room and realize mournfully I have no way of contacting him. I can’t show up at his home again. I no longer own a bike. Once or twice, I’ve thought about going to Noah to ask for Maddox’s number, but what little pride I have remaining keeps me from further acting like the desperate fool. Besides, last time I saw them together, Maddox was throwing punches and Noah was on the floor. I tried to be there for him, but I can’t force it. Can’t make him trust me. He doesn’t judge me, so I’m going to make a conscious effort to attempt to do the same. I don’t know what Noah meant when he said those things that angered Maddox, but the way I see it, everyone has secrets. And they deal with them at their own pace. That I do understand. I’m not happy about his disappearance, and I miss him. So I’ll wait. My days progress in perpetual limbo while I wait for him to reappear back in my life. Either in group therapy, in school, or even at my house. I’ve become that needy for his proximity. It’s the end of the week again, and with the last ring of the bell, the end of school, too. I have my humanities study group upstairs in the library so I make a brief stop at my locker to drop off the books I don’t need to take home tonight. It alleviates the weight from my backpack, making it a whole lot easier for me to carry.

The library is massive and is considered one of Brigham High’s greatest accomplishments. It’s emptier now that it’s the end of the school day, but there are still students milling around. Finding the four members of my humanities study group camped out on one of the solid oak, rectangular tables a little farther back, I hurry to them. Alex, David, Jen, Cory, and I rarely ever interact outside of class, but in class we do pretty well together. When we have an especially difficult test, like the one our humanities teacher is giving us next week, we band together and help each other where the other is weakest.