Page 140 of Good Losers (Lochkelvin Academy)

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As I swing my leg across Rory’s lap, I sense eyes on me. Incredulous stares at my back, severe judgment reflecting off the rearview mirror, and to my right, in closer focus, the sudden, sharp snap of Finlay’s rapt green gaze.

But all of it’s faded. None of it matters compared to the boy beneath me, the one whose smile flickers almost imperceptibly from angel to devil and back again.

I grab the back of Rory’s head and crush our mouths together. It’s painful, bruising, and the two of us bounce together from the force of the cab as it judders across the city.

“Holy shit,” Finlay whispers from beside us, in a tone of utter awe. And I wonder why, because if anyone’s seen Rory and me at our rawest, it’s Finlay. They shared me once in a moonlit loch, adorned me with kisses and marks. Weeks ago, months ago, but it happened. As dreamlike as it’d seemed, it still hadn’t been a dream — I cling to that idea with a kind of desperation: that it can’t have been a dream, a midsummer night’s dream, of fairy-made elixirs and the bubble and froth of perilous love potions. It must have been real, because of all that’s happened since. It had catalyzed everything.

But maybe Rory and I share some captive power over Finlay, something that I’m not fully aware of, because I sense his hunger from the corner. I sense his darkened gaze feasting on us both.

On the other hand, there’s stillness, shocked frozen stillness, from behind me. I wonder if Danny thinks I’ve lost my mind. I wonder what Luke thinks about me at all, if anything. He’d tried to woo me, once. Had thought me sweet enough to bring palaces and grand royal parties to my mind, of ballgowns and the triumph of formality, as though those would tempt me.

I’m nothing like that.

I dance sinfully in nightclubs and bedrooms. I kiss three boys for fun and one for more than that.

I’m Rory Munro’s future bride, with all the darkness and pain that comes with such a role.

Our mouths collide feverishly, a filthy, wet thing that drags moans from both of us — and a small helpless noise from Finlay, too.

Rory kisses down the side of my neck, his arms secured around the base of my spine. I tilt my head to the side to give him easier access and notice, with a small laugh, that the window beside us is already covered with a silvery film of condensation. It’s the same shade as Rory’s eyes; in every direction, I’m surrounded by Rory, consumed by his qualities that can be found, can remind me of him, in the most banal of things.

He cups my backside and slides me closer to his torso, so that I reside against the hard, tantalizing bulge in his pants. I rock slowly against him, hands scrabbling and pulling at his hair as the taxi turns a sharp corner. When I right myself, I resume grinding against him with messy intensity through slick, wet kisses.

I wonder if it’s the pill — our modern-day love potion — that’s turned both of us feral. I mean, me… it’s not a big ask. There’s always been a streak of subversiveness bubbling like hot poison within me, an exhibitionist undercurrent as wide as my spread legs. After all, I’m the girl, the freak, who performed a burlesque routine at a school talent show, and the only thought running through my head at the time had been to seduce the boys that are currently inside this cab.

So I guess that worked.

But Rory? He’s not wild like me. He prefers to do fucked-up things in the shadows, hidden from sight. At the theater or up a mountain or torturing enemies for fun, but always, always, with the veneer of civility. Of suits and ties and all things seemly. A civil English tongue that speaks fluent Latin, currently twined around my coarse, unapologetically American one.

Is it the protesters? The thrill of us vs. them, of being our own tight informed group against these willfully manipulated morons. That nothing can come between us now, not even the primitive ideas of common decency and modesty, now that we’ve spent the past summer together as a connected unit. We share everything now, myself included, and Rory wants to remind them of the true king in this group: the one who gets the first bite of me.

He sucks on my lower lip, drawing out thready moans from the back of my throat, unspooling me with the sweep of his tongue. He tilts my head to the side, feasting on my exposed neck and lapping at my pulse point. My hips undulate against his iron-hard cock, a teasing roll that appears to be tugging him toward the edge every time. His arms tighten around my backside, the muscles in his arms bunched against my dress — my dress, I realize distantly, with its hem crawling up my lower back, my black lace panties no doubt on show. Rory’s breath grows uneven, ragged, the more I lean into him, the more pleasure I make him endure.

With reluctance, Rory peels away from me. He strokes the crown of my head, marveling at the smoothness of my hair, at the length to which it’s grown these past months, before he leans his lips close beside my ear.

“Before you make me come in my pants in the back of this filthy cab,” he whispers with a kind of secret relish, like there’s some merit to the idea, “I want you to suck me. Are you able to do that for me?”

I stare at him uncomprehendingly. “Here?” I ask, and at Rory’s watchful nod, my heart begins to slam in treble-time.

“Only if you want,” he adds, a thin tint of characteristic courteousness briefly returning. “I don’t believe I could ever want anything you don’t.”

My mind is too busy running rapidly, overheating, to make sense of this cryptic comment. The driver, Danny… I…

But as I lock eyes with Rory, it all fades away. I realize that yes, all I’ve ever wanted is to make him mine. I’ve pictured myself at his feet so often, imagined myself as his number one. His pet. And I’ve hidden that part of me, clamped down on it with scornful violence, because what kind of girl am I, who wants to submit herself so dearly to a boy like Rory Munro?

Me. I’m me. And I may be full of conflicts and contradictions, but I’m learning and I’m growing. All I know is that, right now, pleasuring Rory has somehow become my most important priority.

With our eyes connected, I sink to my knees in front of Rory, the floor of the taxi gradually coming to meet me.

There’s a small intake of breath, a sort of muffled squeak, from behind me. The taxi skids, screeches, and then jolts to a sudden stop. I hear the rattle of a plastic chain and the roll of a vinyl blind, and I figure that either Danny or Luke has freaked out enough to pull down the plastic divider.

I dare to dart a glance at Finlay and almost laugh at his owl-eyed awe. He watches Rory and me avidly, as though we’re the best thing he’s ever seen in his life: a movie with his two favorite stars sharing the screen, acting out a script he’s not just written but pored over, mulled over, and overstuffed with his own private wishes.

“Jessa,” Danny says disbelievingly behind me, like he’s trying to catch my attention. It’s a futile act when Rory’s right next to me. “Jessa…” He seems lost for words other than my name but he doesn’t need to say anything else: his tone says it all, with the notes of confusion, the plaintive plea, the genuine concern behind those two syllables.

“I’m fine,” I murmur.

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