Page 38 of All Saints: Pledge

“I wanted to give you the opportunity to succeed on your own. I saw what you were planning to wear and had to intervene.”

I roll my eyes. Finally, the tight skirt fits over my hips and I peel the pants off with a maximum of effort. This thing is exactly my size. I realize bandage dresses are forgiving, but how on earth had Kendall a) found this dress and b) produced one exactly my size from his coat pocket?

“La Voila,” I say, chucking my pants at his head. He bats them away with a hand I see has bruises and abrasions across the knuckles. Proof of his crime.

“Better.”

“Skimpier, at any rate.”

“Better,” he emphasizes before raising his hands and ripping off a chunk of duct tape.

“Is that for my mouth?” I'm only half joking.

I swear his eyes darken as he stares at my mouth for a long beat before yanking his gaze back to mine. “We could start with your wrists, if that’s your pleasure. I’d prefer that mouth of yours remain open.” I think he’s teasing, but I’m not sure. His eyes are like deep pools, and I think the idea of having me immobile at his mercy is exciting to him. Scenes from our little tryst in the library surface in my brain, but this time my hands are above my head, attached to the book shelf. Imaginary Kendall between my knees. Imaginary Kendall grinding into my body against this wall. Imaginary Kendall leaving me powerless as he?—

Wait. What the fuck is wrong with me that right now? Kendall is probably going to tie me to a radiator and leave me to die in something destined to become a cold case on NCIS, and I’m turned on? I have got some serious shit to cover in therapy. “Probably better cover my mouth, too. I bite.” I mean for it to sound like a warning, but he looks pained for a moment like he'd enjoy that.

“This,” he continues, as if we haven’t swerved into dangerous waters, “is for your chest.” He rips the duct tape in half lengthwise.

I take a half step back but he reaches out to stop me.

"I'm sorry, what? I can wear a skin tight dress but you want to make me wear duct tape pasties?"

"You can't wear a bra with that dress. The tape is all I could find to help..." he motions with his hands, "give you some lift."

I cross my hands over my chest. "The girls are plenty fine, thanks."

"Just let me do my job," he growls.

"I am not going to let you duct tape my breasts."

"Do you know how to?"

"Gonna say I missed that class in high school, but I'm mighty curious how you think you know."

"You'd be surprised what I know how to do," he says.

We're quiet a moment and I realize he's waiting for permission.

"Do you want to continue in the brotherhood?" He asks. "Do you want the payout from this test?"

"I'm not sure on the first one, but yes to the second," I grudgingly admit.

"Then let me," he reaches out and sets his hands lightly on my shoulders, thumbs running over my collar bones like I'm a delicate sculpture, "do my job."

I nod briefly, and his hands palm my shoulders before sliding down my clavicle, into my dress, and cupping my breasts.

19

Iwant to slap his hands away, but my body has entirely different priorities. There's a rush, a roaring in my ears. My entire being narrows to the scrape of his palms against my nipples. This new sensation overwhelms me, leaving me momentarily lost.

For so much of my life, my boobs were just… there. There to fill out a T-shirt, there to strap down if I rode a horse at my grandparent’s house. There to keep a swimming suit from falling off me in the summer. In high school, guys found them appealing to look at. I’d certainly experimented with push-up bras when Jaqueline and I tried out the party scene. But no one has ever…palmed them like this. In a delicious slide of pressure that I can feel to my toes. It’s like suddenly discovering a whole new function for my elbows, a life changing one at that. Not merely nice to look at, apparently, but nice to feel.

I just barely bite back a groan and do everything in my power to keep myself from pressing into his hands. Should I slap him? Stomp on his feet? Yank him closer and demand that he do exactly what he’s doing over and over? Fighting the tide of overwhelming sensation, I glare down at Kendall. He's holdingpieces of duct tape in his mouth, and rather than his typical smirk, he's studying my chest like it's some puzzle.

Or a piece of art.

As if he’s a surgeon, he affixes tape around the underside of one breast and then the other. In fact, the only thing that gives away his reaction is the pink at the top of his ears. The flush on his cheeks. The rapid rise and fall of his chest I would love to attribute to my nearness instead of the yelling match we just engaged in. These are the moments where hate and lust run hand in hand. They're just heightened emotion. Heightened arousal.

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