Page 10 of Good Losers (Lochkelvin Academy)

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Without ceremony, Rory yanks down the zipper of my waterproof and pulls away the layers. He exposes the sweater on top of my thin sundress to the elements, and even with Rory shielding me from the worst of it, I’m cold, I’m suddenly so cold, but in a good way, in a way that reminds me I’m alive. He shoves his hand beneath my dress to feel me. Frantic fingers slide up my body, up my naked skin, in a manner that no one else ever has. My skin is a merciless mix of hot and cold.

“Fuck,” he growls into my ear, the moment his hand caresses the base of my right breast. The heat of his breath scatters shivers down to my belly, and he says, almost desperately, “You aren’t wearing a bra.”

Rory releases me then, as though deciding one hand isn’t enough to touch me with, but still it feels as though I’m shackled to the ground, like chains are drawing my arms down into the earth.

He cups my breasts with hard, impatient palms while his mouth draws me into another scalding kiss. Rain slicks across my exposed stomach, dripping between the trails and indents of my ribs before curving around my waist. One kiss follows another, and I moan into Rory’s mouth as his determined fingers brush across and squeeze the aching peaks of my nipples.

“Imagined this,” he whispers gruffly against my nape. The more Rory plays with my breasts, the firmer his erection grows, beating against the side of my hip. “In a thousand different ways.” His hands are everywhere, roaming my breasts but also the sides of my body, the dip of my hips, the softness of my stomach. His hands are frantic, yearning, as if he needs to know all of me at once, as if he needs to know and love every inch I’ve kept hidden beneath stiff school uniforms.

Rory hoists my dress up further, stretching rumpled ruffles of fabric across my shoulders. His head ducks down, skittering kisses along my flat sternum, as though willing to prove to himself and to me that he can keep himself contained, that he can lock up his inner beast under a veneer of rich-boy civility. It lasts for all of one second, maybe two, before his warm mouth slides over the mounds of my breasts, sucking greedily, milking pleasure from me in ways I’ve never, ever known.

I want to laugh. I want to laugh that I’ve managed to conquer Rory Munro with such ease, making him lose control in the middle of a ferocious storm that barely pierces my awareness, as each crack of thunder becomes louder and louder, demanding I pay attention to the real gods in the sky and not the false one in front of me that I only have eyes for, the one currently worshiping my body like a sacred symbol. But this isn’t time for laughter. I’m bursting with life and depth and darkness.

Rory may be a slave to my body, but I’m a slave to him. To the pleasure he gives me. Tentatively, I maneuver my arms down from their stretched-out position overhead. I cradle Rory against me with numb fingers, holding his head close to my skin and pinning him in place, encouraging him to lick and suck and bite all of me, every single inch he wants, as long as I keep receiving those sparks of pleasure that sing and dance down my body like holy music.

He fondles one breast and sucks another, swaps sides after an indeterminate amount of time, and then repeats. It’s as though he wants to lavish them equally — the only time I’ve ever known Rory to be democratic in his life. He draws my nipple into his mouth, tonguing the tight hard bead like he’s addicted to it, like he never wants to stop, never wants this scene to end. And it is a scene, something destined to become a treasured jewel of a did-that-really-happen memory in years to come, with a setting that’s determined to overpower us, but in the end it’s just us: two characters who always wanted to be bound up in each other, finally being allowed to do so.

“Rory,” I breathe, an open-mouthed sigh that tips slick rain down the back of my throat.

I hug him close to me and press soft kisses against his soaked blond hair. He buries his face between my breasts, planting his lips and licking up drops of rain from my skin.

His hand skims my body, grabbing and squeezing as though it’s possible to experience and claim all of me at once. It’s like he’s addicted to the feel of me when wet, or maybe I’m being too modest and he truly is addicted to the feel ofme.

“Rory,” I say again, because it’s the only word left in my vocabulary, a private oath between me and the sky. His name seems to encompass the world, my world. He glances up at me from between my pale breasts, a small wry smile on the corner of his mouth as his hand dips lower and lower. He snaps open the toggle fastening of my waterproofs and buries his hand beneath the elastic waistband, searching, hunting, for the one thing that causes his boyish smile to spread as I surrender.

When Rory’s hand curves over my mound, my lack of breath becomes a sudden, urgent matter. I don’t have the ability to say yes to this. I also, in many more respects, don’t have the ability to say no. Not that consent seems a high priority for Rory. There is no query in his eyes, no gentle question on his lips. I’m not fragile to him and he’s never treated me as such. He doesn’t ask my permission — this is not a boy who’s ever had to ask permission in his life. Consent is a given, in the way I whimper beneath his fingers and can’t say anything other than his name, when the only way I can speak is to elicit an elongated moan.

It’s not just me. Rory shudders when he touches me in my most private area, when his fingers unfurl between soft wet lips and damp cotton. His eyes droop slightly, his breath shortening into a series of gasps, matching the ones he ekes from me. He plants slow, open-mouthed kisses to my naked breasts as he plays with the new toy beneath his teasing fingers, as though to prove he deserves all the shiny gifts in his playroom, that none should ever be packed away.

My head thuds onto the ground. There’ll be mud on my cheeks and grass stains across my body, but at this point I don’t find myself caring, not with Rory’s fingers carding through my curls and tracing the outline of a place I only ever touch in private at the dead of night.

I slant my gaze across to him as rain spatters my cheek. I arch my hips up to meet his seeking hand, which seems to surprise him, as though I could possibly be gaining the same — if not more — pleasure from his touches as he is. He looks incredible like this, with his face between my breasts, a slow, wicked smile spreading across his mouth, and dark magic glittering in his pale eyes.

“You’re so wet,” he murmurs, his fingers curved and exploratory at my entrance. “I did that to you.”

“The rain did it,” I snark, because sometimes it’s more fun to pretend.

Rory bites out a low laugh. “If you get off on rain, little saint, you must be coming nonstop in Scotland.”

It’s a vulgar comment that flares heat into the pit of my stomach. Rory doesn’t give me the chance to retort, discovering the hard nub of my clit and, more importantly, how I react to him touching it. I arch into Rory’s hand, mewling, moaning, making a mess of myself. I don’t care. I don’t care anymore. I just want more of this, of his caresses, of him caressing me and drawing out the type of pleasure that makes me shudder and shiver, my body a delicate kite bowing to the wind as it soars up to be engulfed by cloud.

There are no thoughts in my head when Rory draws small circles onto my clit. They scatter from my mind like feathers and flapping wings. There are only feelings, impressionistic artworks, the rawness of emotion and a gentle suffering as my body craves and craves the shattered outpouring of release. Electricity zips through me as Rory plays with the swollen nub, clearly entertained with each wild buck of my body and flail of my arms.I did that to you.He becomes less amused, his eyes darkening, when I clutch the thick wet flop of his hair between furious, grasping fingers, searching for leverage as my body yields to the firm circles of his fingers.

His eyes are avid on my face as his fingers slide lower against me, lower and lower, until he reaches the dark part of me. Without realizing it, my legs spread, accommodating all of Rory between the cradle of my legs. His silver eyes linger on my parted mouth, on the soundless, shapeless words that tumble from my lips with every dip and press of his fingers that sculpt my entrance.

He raises his blond gleaming head slightly. “May I?”

And suddenly I’m scalding. Heat blooms through my body, so hot that I’m whimpering because I’d always viewed Rory as a being who takes and takes and takes, but somehow entering me, entrance into my innermost chamber, is too much for him, too much for his base, greedy nature to consume, and it’s something worthy of negotiation and respect. My cunt is worth the price of admission — of politely requesting, of lowering himself to become someone less cocksure, of gambling on the off chance that I won’t say no. The realization that the power is not his, has never rested with him, but has instead always been mine. I see him and I know him and all at once I hunger for him, for every private principle he keeps buttoned-up, for every perception he alters, for every paradigm he shifts within me.

I nod because I cannot speak, not with his fingers tenderly stroking my wetness. I hook my feet around Rory’s calves, the rubber heel of my Wellington boots pressing into the small cavern at the back of his knees. He presses his mouth onto me in a mind-melting kiss, the heat of his tongue matching the slip of his fingers as he slants them into my opening.

The groan I ache into his mouth is immense. Lightning cracks overhead, illuminating the blood-red backs of my eyelids. He inches inside me, slowly, carefully, more carefully than Rory’s ever been with me in my life. It’s as if, now that I’m physically his, I’m worthy of cherishing. I’m not fragile to him, I know that, but he’s treating me with more delicacy than I know what to do with, a delicacy that steals away my breath.

I don’t know what to do. His gentle touch has made me stupid, and I’m overwhelmed by the many, many emotions charging through my body. But foremost is an obscene, corrupt kind of pleasure that snakes down my body with every slow inch Rory presses into me.

I shouldn’t be enjoying this so much. Dirty sex in public, in the mud, under a ruined, pouring sky, with an arrogant prick who once wished me dead. My first time, and I’m giving it all to him.

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