Page 93 of Raise Hell

Eighteen

Olivia Pratt might bethe greatest actress who ever lived.

Or I really did just take her virginity.

When I saw the blood staining her thigh, I initially thought she might have started her period. Not a big deal, I’m not the squeamish type.

But the way her fingernails dug into my shoulders when I thrust inside her the first time, the frantic little gasp that eventually turned into a surprised moan as she clenched down around me.

Those things are hard to fake.

I’ve asked around as discretely as I can, trying to find any guys who have dated her. If anybody else at St. Bart’s got to her first, they’re playing it close to the vest.

Olivia Pratt might have been a virgin.

And as unlikely as that is, part of me wants it to be true.

I’m not some archaic piece of shit who thinks a girl is damaged goods if she isn’t a virgin. In fact, I usually prefer girls with a little experience because I don’t have much interest in teaching them how things work.

But there is something about Olivia that makes me wish it could be true.

It’s like I’ve staked a claim on her, taken something no one else will ever be able to possess.

Call me a neanderthal, but part of me wants to carry her off to a cave somewhere so no one else ever gets to touch her.

It’s insanity.

I remember how she looked when I found her unconscious in the woods: bruises on her thighs and her panties ripped to shreds.

No way is this girl a virgin. It’s not possible.

Then again, maybe it is.

Maybe all this shit about her being a threat to Havoc House is a misunderstanding.

Maybe I didn’t see what I thought I did that night.

Or maybe Olivia Pratt is the most skilled liar on the planet.

Except, that doesn’t explain why she would try to trick me into thinking she was a virgin. It’s possible she cut herself on the rocks and spread the blood between her legs so I would think it came from somewhere else.

It doesn’t make sense.

I felt that small bit of resistance when I first pushed inside her, like the smallest barrier to my progress forward. Maybe she is just really good at doing her Kegel exercises.

But it’s hard to imagine how you would fake something like that.

Unless we’ve been wrong about her all along.

Vaughn is the only one home when I get back to the house. He lounges in the living room with his feet kicked up on the coffee table, his back to me.

I get a foot on the first step of the stairs when his voice stops me.

“How’d the date go?”

“Fine,” I respond evenly.

Under normal circumstances, I would have no problem sharing all the dirty details with my closest friend. But nothing about this situation is normal.

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