Page 58 of Gilded Fake

Squirming in your seat for me, Butterfly?

Rushing to delete the message, I fumbled my phone off my desk, then had to dive for it like a wide receiver trying to recover his fumble before someone picked it up and saw the screen. I scrambled back into my seat, my heart racing, feeling like a fucking mess as I flipped my phone face down and tried to collect myself. Colt’s shoulders were shaking with silent laughter. I pressed the button to power off my phone, fuming with rage that he thought this was funny. He should’ve been the one shaking with fear at the possibility of someone finding out.

Dixie walked in with Eleanor, and my heart died a little. Dixie sat with Colt, and Eleanor slid in next to me. I was glad it was her, because Everleigh was more shrewd and might notice something was wrong, might notice that I was looking over at Colt’s table where he was sprawled in his seat, his legs spilling into the aisle, his muscular thighs straining against his navy slacks. I knew how powerful those thighs were, how hard they could drive his cock into me.

I shivered and tore my gaze away just as Dixie leaned into him to point out something on his laptop screen, her cleavage on full display and pushed right up against his arm. My “perfect”—as he called them—little C-cup boobs couldn’t begin to compete with hers. She must’ve had an F-cup. She giggled at something he said and gave a flirty little toss of her head, and suddenly, I didn’t feel sorry for her because he dumped her. I wished she was on the cheer squad so I could accidentally-on-purpose kick out her teeth while I was dismounting.

Fuck her. I didn’t feel bad for her. For two years, she’d gotten Colt, with his piercings and his rose petals and his dirty mouth and dominance instead of violence. Though he’d been a loser since we moved here, he used to play football. He still had the body of an athlete, and a tongue that frankly should be illegal. He may have been a nine-fingered weirdo outcast with neck tattoos, nicotine-stained nails, and an unpredictable temper, but he was better than all the kings of the school combined.

I wanted to fucking cry when he didn’t pull back when Dixie pushed her thigh against his under the desk.

“Are you even listening to me?” Eleanor asked with a huff.

“Sorry,” I said, shaking my head. “I was just thinking about Royal.”

I said it quietly, but I hoped Colt heard and felt as conflicted as I felt seeing him with Dixie. And even though I knew jealous bitch was a bad look on anyone, I couldn’t help the ugly feelings. I kept telling myself it was stupid. We were fuck buddies, and I’d learned the hard way not to fall for those. I wasn’t even sure we could call ourselves that much. We’d only hooked up twice.

But god, I wanted to rip him out of her clutches and put a giant “Do Not Touch” sign on him.

I pictured what it would be like to be her. What would it be like to have been with him for two years? To have known him when he was the star, to see him dragged down from the highest to the lowest, and love him through it all? I didn’t just hate that she had him. I hated that he’d had her love all that time while I was too caught up in my own world to notice he was more than what people said about him.

I’d even told Dixie that I didn’t understand why she was hung up on him, that she could do better. Now I understood exactly what she saw in the loser who smoked under the bleachers, the outcast with a missing finger and burn scars on his hand. And as much as I hated it, I could understand what he saw in her. She was loyal. She loved him unconditionally. She hadn’t treated him like shit for an entire year.

I was prettier than her, but I didn’t care about being pretty. Not when it meant I drew the attention of the Dolce boys while she got Colt. I knew I was an ungrateful bitch. Mom always said appearances were the most important thing. I was lucky that I fit the beauty standard that checked the most boxes where boys were concerned. My boobs weren’t the biggest, but I wasn’t flat. My ass was tiny, but it had the right shape instead of being a pancake. I had toned abs, pretty hair, and a face that, with the right makeup, was probably an eight.

But none of it mattered if the guy I wanted would rather be with someone who didn’t check any of those boxes.

By that evening, I was determined to stop feeling sorry for myself. I built my resolve and snuck into the kitchen to fill a tote bag with snacks. Tonight, we’d have more than champagne to keep our energy up. Smiling to myself, I crept across the lawn and into the pool house. After I set out the snacks, I connected my phone to the speakers and turned on some music, keeping it low and not putting on anything too romantic. I didn’t want to give him the wrong idea, make him think I was falling in love or anything.

I slipped into my cheer uniform top, skirt and shoes, leaving off the bloomers. When I saw his shadow beside the pool, I spread my legs and started touching myself. He stepped inside and pulled the door closed, his eyes already blazing with lust. “Fuck, I could see you from out there,” he said, striding to the bed.

“See something you like?” I asked, circling my clit slowly with a fingertip and biting my lip as I watched his hooded eyes follow the motion.

He climbed onto the bed, spreading my knees as wide as they’d go and licking his lips, his gaze fixed between my thighs. “Don’t stop. Spread that pussy like a butterfly and finger yourself until you’re fluttering like one.”

“Keep talking,” I said through panting breaths. “Tell me what you want me to do.”

His lips curled into a smile, and he unzipped, pulling out his cock and stroking his thumb over the tip, hitting every piercing. “Show me how the bitch queen cums when she’s at home thinking about me,” he said, stroking himself. “I’m going to cum all over you, and then you can suck the cum off your fingers while I wreck that sweet cunt with something a lot bigger than a finger.”

The anticipation made me hot all over, and it didn’t take long. He knelt up over me, spurting hot liquid over my hand and between my thighs. Then he told me to lick it off, and while I obeyed, he pushed more into me with his fingers, then rubbed the rest into my skin like lotion, coating my inner thighs and lower belly.

“Don’t shower until after the game tomorrow,” he commanded. “I want to know my cum is on your thighs while you’re cheering for Royal at the game.”

Even though usually the thought of something like that would disgust me, I loved it. It was dirty and hot, just like him. I wanted to bathe in his cum, wear it inside my clothes when no one else knew. He did something to me, made me someone else. Or maybe he just let me be who I was, with no expectations. At school, even at home, I had to be on all the time, had to be the untouchable bitch, the flawless daughter, the malevolent queen who conquered Willow Heights.

The only person I was real with was Royal. That was probably why I loved him. And now, with Colt, it was the same but better somehow, even though we barely knew each other. I let him see me, and unlike Royal, he really looked. He looked and he didn’t judge. I didn’t have to be anyone with him, to be special or elite or perfect. For once in my fucking life, I didn’t have to try to impress someone. He was so much lower than me on the social ladder that I didn’t care what he thought. I could be myself, and he wouldn’t hate me. He’d already seen me at my cruelest, and he was here anyway.

He was here in the bed with me, eating Funyuns and not telling me what they’d do to my breath or my skin or my waistline. He laughed when I sang “Lover” and swayed across the room to the music, turning around and coyly flipping up my skirt so he could see my bare ass. When I was done teasing, I took off my shirt so he could touch more of me, but I kept on my skirt and shoes when I climbed onto the bed and rode him until we both came again.

“What happened?” I asked, running my fingers over the backs of his arms, where he had a bandage over each. “Did Royal do something to you?”

He smirked and peeled up the edge of one of them, turning his arm and flexing his triceps. “Just a little new ink,” he said, showing me the four, black, crescent moon shaped tattoos.

“What is that?” I asked, staring at him.

“Just a little reminder from Sunday morning.”

“Colt…”

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