Page 105 of Good Losers (Lochkelvin Academy)

Rory kisses me. He spreads my legs and goes down on me. Every moment I spend with Rory comes with the acknowledgment of how I’ve read him all wrong, that Rory is so incredibly giving with his kisses and his pleasure. He gifts me with orgasms. He wants to make me shudder, make me explode in his arms. He craves the pride that comes with it, the knowledge that I’m thoroughly satisfied by him. Every night I’m with Rory, it’s as though he’s done more research, learned more ways to rock my world. He’s so incredibly generous with my body that the only thing I can give him in return is my breath, my whispered declarations of love, and sometimes, when the pleasure feels too overwhelming, my tears.

And then there’s Finlay. And it’s still technically a secret, the fact that we sleep together, that I tiptoe into his bedroom past midnight, his door unlocked just for me, and I fall into his enveloping arms. I haven’t yet found the right combination of words to tell Rory, but part of me deep down is functioning under the impression that Rory must already know — he’s fiercely intelligent, keenly observant. Hemustsense the tension between the three of us, he must understand where it comes from, and how it catalyzed that moonlit night in the loch, when the three of us were forever united.

How could I not be with Finlay after that night?

My willpower plummets for these boys.

We never have sex. It’s the one rule I’ve managed — struggled — to keep, and it doesn’t stop me from craving it. Under the cover of darkness, Finlay and I lick and suck each other until we draw out thready moans and slick precum. We stroke each other inch by inch, discovering the most sensitive areas of our bodies. Being with Finlay is darker than being with Rory. Whereas Rory treats me gently, possessively, Finlay’s instinctive and follows my moans, as though trying to drag more of them out of me.

Finlay — and there’s no other word for it — hurts me. He grabs my arms and snatches my hair, he breathes the wordMinein my ear. He beats my ass with as much fury as he did in the loch, only now I don’t have rushing waves of water to protect me. My voice grows hoarse behind Finlay’s tight, clutching palm, and I shatter beneath his cruel touch every time, wondering distantly if I’m a sicko for enjoying it so much.

My mind turns blank. My body turns limp. It’s like surrendering to true peace. Catharsis.

Finlay deliberately doesn’t give me orgasms, though he does more than enough to send me hurtling toward that blissed-out state. Whenever we’re together, we get ourselves off, so that we can pretend to be innocent even though we both know full well what we’re doing. But the delusion is almost as much of a thrill as the touching. The journey towardalmost, almost, is worth the anticipation of watching Finlay coming next to me, his seed trailing past his fist, down his bunched knuckles.

What if Rory found out, what if Rory found out…

With every fiber in my being, I want to see that fight.

The books I read during this time are political tomes that lean toward female supremacy. Although I’m not sure if I fully agree with the concept, it’s a notion that fuels my bedroom fantasies. One of my most favorite orgasms occurs with me sitting naked on Finlay’s bare chest, him staring up at me in clear awe. I’ve never been positioned on top before in bed, but I decide there and then that I like it a lot.

I touch myself while propped on his chest. After a while, I lie on top of him, and Finlay’s arms wrap around me in a heartbeat. He alternates between spanking me and massaging my backside, and both feel exquisite. My orgasm crests while Finlay holds me tight, as he elicits moans from me into his ear. It’s the coziest, snuggliest orgasm I’ve had with Finlay, and afterward it only takes the accidental graze of my thigh for his iron-hard cock to erupt across my skin.

Rory treats me like a lady — his lady. Finlay treats me like the greedy brat I really am.

As though to emphasize this, Rory takes me out one night for dinner and a show, just the two of us. It’s the kind of restaurant with heavy leather-bound menus and an array of sparkling wine glasses, gentle background conversation and waitstaff in bowties. Men wear formal suits and gold watches while women shimmer with jewels and expensive perfume.

It’s something of a departure from this afternoon, when Finlay had taken me to a bubble tea bar. We’d challenged each other to hold as many tapioca balls between our cheeks as possible from our shared glass and I’d almost spat them out from laughing too hard.

“This is nice,” I say calmly, accepting the menu the waiter hands us and trying not to freak out. Yes. I totally belong here, even though I’ve never eaten at a restaurant that doesn’t have creased laminated menus and peeling Formica tables. This can’t be real life; it looks like a movie set.

While Rory is right at home, wearing a suit with actual gilt cufflinks and a navy blue skinny tie that gives him a semblance of edge, I feel incredibly underdressed in my simple black cotton dress.

The other women have intricate, towering hairstyles that must have taken an entire can of hairspray to hold, perfectly constructed masks of make-up, and dresses that resemble actual gowns.

“It’s the best place in the city,” Rory notes, and orders water for the table. “Anything to drink?”

I shake my head. I don’t think I have much of a head for alcohol, having sworn off it after the time I got woozy on wine from the Munros’ cellar.

We’re seated far away from the windows, which have been concealed by thick, luxurious velvet drapes. It gives the restaurant a cozy, decadent ambiance, but the true reason the windows are covered goes unmentioned. On our taxi ride to the restaurant, we’d passed protesters a block away, kicking in windows of a shop cheerfully describing itself as the Royal family’s most favorite biscuiteer.

I gaze down at the menu, which is written in as much gobbledygook as the one for the senior dance. I scan for the happy little letter V and decide to take a chance on the beetroot terrine, not knowing what a terrine is and trying to remember the last time I ate a beetroot that wasn’t the component of vegan chocolate cake.

“What show are we seeing?” I ask, snapping the menu closed with a pleased flourish when I see Rory’s still studying the menu.

“Tosca.”

“I see.”

I do not see.

“One of the more popular operas to start you with, and quite relevant for our current political times, so I imagine you’ll already be somewhat familiar with it.”

The only thing I’m familiar with is the title. I know absolutely nothing about opera, but I’m not surprised Rory does. This is his world: chauffeured in black cabs, fine dining at five-star restaurants, followed by a night at the theater where the audience is dressed almost as lavishly as the performers.

“Why opera?” I ask. “What’s so special about it?”

From the way Rory stares at me, I may as well have queried gravity. “It’s the defining characteristic of the social classes.”

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