Page 80 of Spearcrest Knight

I slide off the table and turn, facing away from him, pulling a tissue from my blazer pocket. I clean myself up as best as I can, even though I’m painfully aware of what I smell like right now: like Evan’s sweat, cologne and come.

Like I’m his.

Once I’m as clean as I’m going to be, I button up my school shirt and straighten my uniform. My hands shake as I do, and my thighs are still trembling uncontrollably. I’m sore and hot between my legs—still, somehow, agonisingly turned on.

I ignore the sensation, reminding myself of what this is. Just sex—nothing more.

Sex with someone I don’t even really like, someone I never want to see again.

By the time I’ve turned around, Evan’s already fixed his trousers and is standing staring at me, his hand pushing his hair from his face in a nervous gesture. He hesitates, the ghost of words moving on his lips, but I’m the first to speak.

“We’re done, okay?” I meet his gaze directly, firmly. “You got what you wanted—you win. You get to tell all your cool friends you fucked the stuck-up prefect, tick another name off for your stupid bet. You can tell them all how desperate I was, that you only did this out of pity, you can use every insult in your repertory—I don’t care. Just stay away from me.”

And with that, I walk away, pausing only to pick up my clipboard, and leave without looking back.

24

Nobody

Evan

Tuesdaycomes,andSophiedoesn’t turn up. It’s not exactly a surprise—far from it. I would have been pretty shocked if she’d turned up.

She made pretty clear her intention to avoid me. But if she really wanted me out of her life, she probably shouldn’t have let me fuck her from behind and come all over her. Because now, I don’t want anything else but to do it again.

Over and over again.

Whatever strategy was behind that move, I suppose I can sort of work out. I made her come with my mouth that night so she probably assumed I chased her down to claim the orgasm I was owed in return. It would be exactly like Sophie to assume sex works exactly like a chess match, with two opponents facing each other across the board and taking turns making moves against one another.

What did she say again?

“You won.”

Like having sex with her was a victory, a way of scoring a point against her.

If there’s one thing I’ve learned this year, it’s that for someone so smart, Sophie can be really fucking stupid sometimes.

Sex isn’t a game of chess where one person wins and one person loses. Sophie hasn’t ceded a victory to me the way she so clearly believes. She didn’t let me win the battle just so she could end the war.

Quite the opposite.

If I wanted Sophie before, fucking her only made me want her more. Because now, all I can think about is making Sophie pant and moan and arch against me. Sliding my fingers against her pussy, feeling how wet and ready she is for me. Rubbing my cock against her pussy, her breasts, sliding it between her arrogant lips. All I can think about is fucking her hard and punishingly, making her feel as broken as I did when she fucked me and refused to look at my face.

But I also want so much more than that.

In spite of how cruel she is, I still want to please her. I want Sophie squirming and moaning under my hands, my lips, my tongue. I want Sophie writhing on top of me, I want to fuck her long and slow, to dangle her off the edge of an orgasm for as long as I can, to make her come so hard she sees stars.

And I want to get under Sophie’s skin.

I’m sick of being the one to lose my composure around her, of being a fucking mess while she stands there with her impeccable uniform and her straight posture and her disdainful eyes. I want to be the one to make a mess of her for once. I want to crumble her like a sheet of paper, scribble myself all over her.

So on Tuesday, even though I completely expected her to be a no-show, I still can’t help peering out of the windows and pacing around, waiting for something that’s not going to happen. I clench and unclench my fists and grit my teeth so hard I give myself a headache.

I made a deal with myself to not text her, and I haven’t. Part of me doesn’t want to give her the satisfaction of ghosting my texts, which is exactly what she would do. Part of me wants Sophie to be on the other side of the phone, staring at her notifications, wondering why I’ve not texted her.

I want Sophie to be as restless as I am, I want her to sit and suffer like me.

But deep down, I know how unlikely that is. Sophie hasn’t been shy about telling me she likes somebody else. If it’s true, then what can I do with that? This isn’t a romantic film, it’s not like I’m going to chase Sophie to some airport and make her pick me over someone she actually likes.

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