Page 26 of Cruel Elite (Princes of Ravenlake Academy 3)

Noah pulls his fingers out of me and steps away, and I stare at him.

It’s him. It’s Noah.

But his voice… his voice belongs to…

“Penelope!”

My mom’s voice echoes down the hall, shriller than any alarm ever could be. “Wake up right now or we’ll be late to yoga!”

I blink my eyes open blearily.

I gasp and pull my finger out of my panties. My entire body heats with embarrassment, and I sit bolt upright in bed and check my door, calming myself with the fact my mom hadn’t come in and seen me touching myself in my sleep.

It’s weird, but I can’t decide whether I’m more disturbed at the thought of my own fingers doing it or Noah Boone’s.

One interaction in the woods after two years of radio silence and suddenly he is starring in my slightly traumatic sex dreams? Not cool.

“Penelope, NOW!” Mom screams.

“Coming!” I shout before I realize the irony.

I can still feel the heat between my legs, the ball of tension low in my belly that even yoga won’t be able to cure.

Mom is yelling for me to get going now, but she doesn’t expect me to go to yoga with bedhead and a fresh face.

No, it’s an event. As always. A public event where I’m expected to make my best impression.

I check the clock. The first class at the studio doesn’t start for another ninety minutes.

For any normal person, that would be plenty of time to take care of the itch.

But my mom is not a normal person. So, I start in on my daily ritual.

I shave in the shower, tweeze my eyebrows in the bathroom mirror, blow dry and curl my hair only to pull it back into a high pony, and do my makeup.

I can’t look like I’ve done my makeup, though. That would be ridiculous.

Nobody wears makeup to work out, Penelope.

So it needs to look natural.

Concealer hides the dark circles under my eyes and the small blemishes on my jawline and near my nose. A sheer powder gives me an airbrushed look. Pale pink blush adds a little color.

It’s more understated than I would ever dare wear to school, but for the yoga studio, it’s just right.

Hopefully, it passes Momma’s inspection.

By the time I shove myself into my purple leggings and matching sports bra and grab my coat, Momma is tapping her foot at the base of the stairs, purse slung over her shoulder.

“About time,” she snaps, turning on her heel and marching out to the car.

I’m ten minutes early. Early enough we have time to stop and get lattes in the drive-thru, but she never apologizes. I’d fall over dead with surprise if she did.

At the studio, I do “the circuit.”

As if I’m the princess at a royal ball, Momma expects me to move around the room before the start of class and talk to everyone.

I do as I’m told. Even though I want to scream, tear my hair out, have a meltdown in the middle of the empty room.

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