Page 8 of Something So Strong

My hands roam from her knees to her thighs. She’s so toned I can feel every muscle working as she lifts herself up and down.

I wonder what Jesse’s legs feel like. How different it would be to run my fingers through the hairs on them as he fucks himself on my cock.

My abs tense and I shudder at the thought.

Digging my fingers into Alma’s waist, I hold her in place, close my eyes, and rut up into her. Hard. She cries out. Begs me not to stop, but all I see is Jesse’s bare chest, his blond hair hanging loosely in his face as he looks down at me, carnal pleasure and disgust smearing his features. His hand pumps his cock because perplexing as it may be to be railed by a guy, it also feels so fucking good.

“Yes, Kai. Harder!” Alma urges, leaning her hands on my chest. But in my head, the words fall from Jesse’s plump lips and my heart squeezes and contorts with a beautiful ache that settles in my guts. I want to wrap my arms around him. Lick his lips, then kiss them softly. Capture his cries of pleasure in my mouth as he pants on top of me.

I want to see his body overtaken with lust and gratification.

I want to make him feel that way.

I want to do all of those things and more.

I need to.

I need him.

I need to feel this way all the time.

Turned on by a smile. A nervous shuffle. The unfamiliar craving in his eyes. By the thought of making him happy. By the concept of putting someone else before myself.

Nine years ago, I stopped relying on other people. Friendship and sitting left of center had gotten me nowhere, so my life became a solo race to the finish line and I could get there quicker if I had no one weighing me down. Yet now, in a flurry of freckles and dirty-blond hair, I’ve hit a giant fucking speed bump I’m not sure I want to get to the other side of.

White on white on white.

The kitchen of our staff housing block is a fluorescent fucking nightmare on my tired eyes. A far cry from the walnut and oak wainscoted walls of the dining hall at Lancaster C & P. It’s all synthetic: Plastic and polyurethane, the hard surfaces reverberating the noise like an echo chamber. And they don’t even have porridge. It’s a staple. Canada is a colony and they grow oats every-bloody-where.

“Just put something on a plate, Jess. Please.”

I grunt at Romeo and shuffle forward along the cheap gray linoleum floor to a basket filled with donuts. Bright, huge, and not a breakfast food. How the hell can someone start their day properly with so much sugar? However, I did have a croissant every morning for seven years and that’s layers and layers of pastry wrapped around layers and layers of butter. So is it really much better?

Leaving the Continental V New World food debate behind me, I throw a donut on my plate and scuff my grandpa slippers towards an empty table. Pulling the seat out, my eyes catch a ragged-looking girl in the back corner, hugging her legs against her chest. Darting her gaze away from mine, she scans the room like a nervous chipmunk before locking in on Romeo as he plods towards me. Dumping what looks like one of everything on offer on the table, he heads straight back to the coffee station like a zombie. Then, the girl’s eyes are back on me and her stare is callus and stark as the fingers of her right hand twist the earrings in her ear. It’s creepy. I swear she’s dismembering me in her mind. Hacking off piece after piece of me and laying them to the side for inspection.

Shuddering, I curl my top lip and slump into a chair.

So far—aesthetics aside—this place is just like Lancaster College & Prep. A total freaks r’ us. But instead of the children of the British elite, this time I’m surrounded by the misfits of society. And where the fuck does that leave me?

“Hi,” some girl greets me as she walks past. Her fingers wave enticingly as she holds my gaze for a few seconds too long for the interaction to be out of pure politeness. Her hair is piled high on her head and whilst the t-shirt she’s wearing with her pajama pants is quite endearing, my brain is still on London time—and thus—so is my willingness to flirt back.

The aroma of the strongest coffee I’ve possibly ever smelt makes my brow pinch as I continue to stare at the random girl, still awaiting a response. Taking my finger, I plunge it into the middle of the icing-covered donut, making the jam ooze out. Lifting my finger, I hold it up to Romeo as he puts two cups of coffee down on the table. Sitting down himself, he leans in and sucks the jam from my finger.

“Raspberry,” he drones, not looking at me or the girl.

Again, I dip my finger into the donut, but this time taste it myself. “Raspberry,” I repeat with a small confirming nod, and the girl finally walks away.

“You know she’s only going to be more interested now,” Romeo sighs, though his lamentations aren’t at my actions but his own self-pity. Pushing the plate of food he’d piled up into the middle of the table, he guzzles down his coffee in one giant gulp.

“Was there any decent tea?” I ask, smearing the jam through the icing sugar, making swirls, and occasionally having another taste. I get a shrug from my friend as he lifts the second cup to his face, this time pausing to breathe in the steaming mist rising from its black contents.

“She was cute,” he refers to the girl and takes a sip.

“You think they’re all cute.”

“No, I don’t.”

“You trying to argue this with me is what’s cute.”

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