Page 52 of Best In Class
The sound hits me low, sharp and electric, like a jolt straight to my cock.
If she’s going to make sounds like that, yeah, so this is going to be a long meal, followed by a long drive.
She sucks some hot sauce off her thumb. “Divine.”
I have to clear my throat. Shift. I’m hard.
She isn’t doing this on purpose. If she knows I am aroused by simply watching her eat, she’ll be mortified.
Halfway through the meal, she slows down and sits back, drinking iced tea.
She sets her glass down, tilts her head, and says thoughtfully, “You know it’s remarkably easy being with you.”
I can’t look away from her. I’ve never been able to. “I know,” I murmur.
Tell her now, Dom. Just tell her.
But what if she hates me more? What if she can’t forgive me for lying?
“What?” she asks.
“What?” I frown.
“You want to say something to me, but you aren’t sure if you should.”
She knows me.
“You looked like this when you said you loved me the first time.” She closes her eyes, a small smile on her face, like she’s casting the memory into the air between us.
I am seventeen and she’s sixteen. Desire throbs between us. We’ve made out a lot, but we haven’t made love…yet.
I want it to be special, but I don’t know how to do that. I’m a virgin.
Lev has had sex, but it feels wrong to ask him to give me tips for when I deflower his sister.
She sits on the rickety wooden dock by the lake in the Steele estate, away from the mansion.
We bicycled here. It took us a good twenty minutes.
We come here a lot. To get away. To talk. To be silent together.
It’s early morning, and the mist is curling off the lake, still deciding whether to rise or stay wrapped around us.
Luna is barefoot, legs swinging over the edge, a battered tackle box between us and two poles propped against a splintering railing.
She’s wearing one of my old sweatshirts, sleeves too long, freckled nose scrunched as she threads a hook like she’s solving a puzzle.
I say her name. Just once. Quietly.
She looks up.
“What?”
“I….” I do an imitation of a deer caught in headlights.
She makes a face. “You have that look on your face.”
I frown, confused. “What look?”
