Ryan’s paranoia knows no bounds. He’s been even more suspicious of me lately, but I haven’t exactly been discreet. I knew staying late at school every day wouldn’t go over well. But, I couldn’t—can’t—resist the urge to be anywhere but home lately. The fact that I’m spending all that extra time in Mr. James’ class—well, that’s simply a bonus. I love pushing his buttons almost as much as I love watching him squirm, but somewhere down the line, I didn’t know who I was torturing anymore. Him or myself? Today, in my self-induced detention, I wanted him to put his hands on me. To grip my waist and show me how a man touches a woman. Not a fumbling boy. I wanted to feel his skin on mine, to taste his tongue. What would he taste like?
Then Ryan called and reality came crashing down on me. He gave me the usual third degree about fucking other guys. I informed him that I could fuck whomever I wanted. He didn’t like that. Instead of going home, he made me tag along on his errands—one of which included stopping by his friend’s house to pick up a “package”. In hindsight, I should have known before that moment—the signs were there all along—but I’ve realized that sometimes we’re blind to the truth when it comes to the people whom we love most. It’s our heart’s way of protecting itself.
Ryan denied doing drugs, said that he was “just selling them”…because that’s so much better. The rest of the day was spent putting the pieces of the puzzle together. The paranoia. The mood swings. The late nights. It all made sense. My brain worked overtime, trying to figure out when it began, why it began, and wondering what I could’ve done to stop it.
When Ryan started calling people over to party—a prime opportunity to expand his clientele, I’m sure—a sense of dread swirled in my gut. I knew it wouldn’t end well. He told me to stay in my room, which was the norm on nights like this. Usually, I was happy to oblige. The last thing I wanted to do was hang out with a bunch of randoms. But tonight was different. I needed to pull the blinders off when it came to Ryan. To see the truth. And now, I wish I hadn’t.
He was sitting on the couch with something tied around his arm. His long, greasy blond hair hung in front of his eyes, and the girl on his lap angled herself toward him to inject something into his veins. At first I was frozen in place. But the sight of the syringe broke through my trance.
“What the fuck, Ry?!” I yelled, and the tears that I didn’t know I was crying started streaming down my face. He stood up, letting the girl on his lap fall on her ass.
“‘Just selling,’ huh? What is this?” Before I made a conscious decision to do so, I was in his face, shoving at his shoulders, smacking wherever I could land a hit. He grabbed me by the shoulders, shaking the shit out of me.
“Fucking stop, Rem. Go back to bed!” But I didn’t budge. My heart was breaking. Instead of breaking down, I held on to the other emotion fighting its way to the surface. Rage. How could he do this? To me, to my dad, to himself? All we’ve ever done is love him.
“You’re a piece of shit, Ry! Nothing but a junkie, just like Darla. Congratulations, big brother. You’re your mother’s son,” I ground out through tears.
It was that comment that did it.
One shove from Ryan and I fell backwards onto the glass coffee table. It shattered, and a chunk of glass stabbed my inner thigh. I braced myself for the fall with outstretched hands when I landed. A couple of pieces of the coffee table were embedded in my palms, but the only pain I felt was for Ryan. Ryan’s friend Reed stepped in then, and one of the girls tried helping me up, but I smacked her hand away. When I tried to go back to my bedroom, I found a girl jerking off a dude in my bed. That was the last straw. I had to get the hell out of there. I haphazardly threw some shit into my backpack—a change of clothes, my camera, and God knows what else—all while they carried on like no one was watching.
After twenty-seven million unanswered calls to Christian, I finally caved and called Mr. James. After all, that was exactly why he gave me his number. He probably wouldn’t even answer. Except he did. And more than that, he cared. This teacher of mine was more concerned for me than anyone else had been my entire life. There was something terribly sad about that fact, but I can’t deny that it felt good to be cared for.
Mr. James burst through the bathroom door, somehow looking more intimidating than a house full of bikers and junkies in only a pair of mesh gym shorts and a tight white V-neck. And he protected me. Defended me. Rescued me. I wasn’t usually the type of girl who needed saving, but Pierce James in white knight mode was a sight I won’t soon forget. His eyebrows were drawn together, his nostrils flaring. His skin was glistening from the hot, summer night. His usually tamed hair was an unruly mess, and he never looked better to me.
Now I’m in his car—once again—except this time, I have no idea where we’re going. I sense an internal battle going on with him, so I don’t ask. Anywhere is better than home. The glass barely even broke the skin on my palms, and the cut on the inside of my thigh has stopped bleeding, but I try to pull my skirt down further so I don’t get blood on his seats, just in case. Mr. James glances over and shakes his head.
“What happened?” he asks gruffly.
“I—”
“Never mind. Don’t tell me. Not yet,” he interrupts.
I swallow wordlessly, feeling my age for the first time since we met. We’re both quiet as he drives us out of the city limits, toward the Hoover Dam. I still don’t ask where we’re going. Wherever it is, I trust him. A few minutes later, I see a sign that reads Lake Mead Marina. He parks and we silently walk toward the docks. Finally, he stops and gestures for me to enter a houseboat tied to the dock.
It’s a modest houseboat, and there’s not much going on inside. A tiny white table with a blue booth wrapped around it in a U-shape and a little couch with an old quilt bedspread that’s sitting behind it. Mr. James walks straight for the mini fridge and grabs two beers. I reach for one, and he snatches it out of my grasp.
“No way.” He shakes his head. “It’s bad enough that you’re here. I’m not giving you alcohol on top of it. These are both for me.”
I’ve been drinking beers with Ryan and my pops since I was sixteen, but now isn’t the time to argue, so I hold back the eye roll. He downs both beers within minutes and gets another. He sits in the booth and gestures toward the bed with his bottle.
“Start talking,” he orders, gesturing for me to sit with a head tilt. I feel his demanding tone right between my thighs.
“You mean about tonight?”
“I mean about everything. Don’t spare one single detail, Remington. I want to know how you got to where you are, what happened on the way there, and how can we make it better for you.”
I sit down on the edge of his bed, and I tell him the whole story, start to finish. I tell him about my mom dying, my dad meeting Darla and taking in Ryan. Darla running off. Dad being on the road all the time, and how Ryan was my brother, best friend, and my parent, all at once. I tell him how lately I feel more like the parent. I tell him about how I got into West Point. I tell him how Ryan has been a loose cannon—hence the reason for hanging out at school more than any sane student should want to. Lastly, I tell him about the drugs. When I get to the part where I fell through the table, I think his teeth might crack under the pressure of his jaw.
“I’m fine,” I insist, parting my legs slightly, absently tracing the dried blood. “It’s just a little cut.”
“It’s not the first time he’s been abusive to you. Physically,” he says, not asks. His hard stare penetrates my self-confidence. I stare down at the floor.
“If you mean the marks on my thigh….” And when I see the look in his eyes, the designated grown-up who doesn’t believe me, my voice is firmer this time. “Mr. James, I know how to take care of myself.”
“When is your father coming back?” He ignores my statement.
“Next week. Tuesday or Wednesday.” I try to remember, but it’s really not that easy to get my brain to work under the watchful eye of this Adonis of a man. He taps his lips, as if contemplating the whole situation, and my eyes zoom in on his perfect lips. God, he is hot.
“Do you have anywhere else to stay?” he asks. I give it some thought. Not a lot. I already know the answer. Nope. That would be a big, fat no. The only person I would consider an actual friend is Christian, and he won’t be able to explain my presence in his house for a few days. I don’t even feel that comfortable telling him. Despite our friendship, it is still difficult to admit just how bad things have gotten at home. My life is so different than the lives of West Point’s other students, that I think it’s sometimes difficult to comprehend.
I don’t answer, but look away, outside through the window of the little boat. It’s cozy in here. There’s a medium-sized yellow couch that looks old but comfy, a small kitchen, and a bathroom you can climb down to.
“Remingt—” He starts again. I cut him off.
“What do you want me to say, Mr. James? That the answer is no? I have no one to rely on when things go south. I called you, didn’t I?” I blow a lock of hair away from my face, frustrated. “That should tip you off about my overall situation. I don’t want you to save me. I want you to make me forget.”
My voice breaks at the last sentence, and I hate it, and I hate me, and I hate this. I wanted to have fun with Pierce James. I wanted him to be a distraction from life, and instead, somehow he’s become my whole life, and everything else is a distraction.
“You can stay here.”
“I don’t need your charity.”
“You’re not getting any.” It’s his turn to snap and push off his chair, walking over to me. He is assertive. And big. All man. My assumption was right the first time I saw him. He shouldn’t be a teacher. He is too menacing to be one.
“If you were a charity case,” his eyes narrow at me, “I would throw your case on the headmaster’s desk and look the other way. If you were a charity case, I would follow protocol. You. Are. Not. A. Charity. Case. You need a place until this blows over. You need to be honest with your dad about what’s going on with your stepbrother. If he’s a smart man, he may throw your stepbrother out once you explain. I’m counting on it. Until then, you stay here. Understood?”
There’s a pause in which everything is completely silent, save for the distant hoots and hollers from the surrounding party boats.
I hang my head, knowing he’s right and hating it. “Yes.”
“Good girl.”
Only thing is…I’m not good. And I’m about to become even worse than he had ever imagined, because this—right here—his compassion, is driving me nuts. Without thinking about the consequences—something I never do when I’m around him—I push him to the chair in front of me and hop on the wooden counter of the small kitchenette. I part my thighs, ever so slightly. Pretend to check the bloody wound.
He swallows hard, and my eyes catch the movement in his throat. His eyes drop—finally, finally—between my legs as he takes another swig. Victory.
My heart is doing cartwheels in my chest, and even though he hasn’t so much as touched me, I feel myself growing slick. His eyes stay fixed on me, and it gives me the courage to take it a little further. I slide my fingers up toward my plain white bikini underwear and graze my clit over the fabric. For half a second, I’m insecure about my less than sexy undergarments, but the look in his eyes—a little pissed off and a lot horny—squashes that thought.
I’m afraid he’s going to turn me down again. Tell me to stop. Throw me in the fucking lake, I don’t know. But he doesn’t do any of those things. Instead, he stands and grabs a beer—once more—then returns to the booth. This is the last thing I should be thinking about doing after tonight, but this is the first time he hasn’t shut me down, and I need to know I’m not the only one feeling this. I need to know I affect him as much as he affects me. He sits forward, with his elbows on his knees, the bottle dangling between two fingers as he studies me.
He wants to watch.
I lean back on my elbows and bring my knees up so my feet are resting on the edge of the counter. Now my legs are spread wide. If anyone walked in right now, he’d appear to be disinterested. But I know the truth. He wants this. But he wants me to take the choice from him. I rub myself over my panties, slowly circling my clit again. Touching myself is nothing new, but with Mr. James watching me, it’s never felt better. A moan slips out, and my hips start rocking into my touch. He licks his lips and takes another drink. When he sits back in his seat, I see exactly how much he wants me through his gym shorts. But he doesn’t make a move to touch himself.
Challenge accepted.
I take a deep breath and pull my panties to the side, showing him the parts of me no one else has ever seen. I’ve never been exposed like this. Even with my ex, Zach, it was only twice, and only ever in the dark, under the covers. I’m spread out on display for my teacher, and the thought only gets me hotter.
This. This is what I’ve been waiting for.
“Fuck,” he breathes, and I take that as a win. I slip two fingers inside, and they slide in easily with how wet I am. My head drops back, and I fuck my fingers harder, rubbing at the tight bundle of nerves with the heel of my palm.
“I picture you touching me like this almost every night,” I admit breathlessly. “And in class. It’s all I ever think about.” He bites down on his plump bottom lip, but doesn’t respond.
I palm my breast over my tank while I rock into my other hand, and I feel it building. I’m not going to last much longer. I glance at him again. He stares at me like I am nothing and everything at the very same time. I have no idea what’s going through his mind, and that just makes it so much hotter. This is all a mind game. He could just be playing me, and thinks I’m nothing but a stupid little girl—a cheap, soon-to-be-broken toy. Jesus, I’m not even sure if he is hard for me or for the situation. The sheer desperation that I exhibit as I offer him myself like a sacrifice.
I want to break that control. I stand and walk toward him. When I’m standing next to the table in front of him, I slide my underwear down my legs, letting them fall to the floor.
“Remington,” he warns, his voice still hard and gruff. It’s the same stern voice that tells me to stop touching myself. To go to the headmaster’s office. To behave. Only tonight, I will misbehave until I break him.
Before he has the chance to object, I sit on the corner of the table, swinging one leg around him so he’s in between my thighs. His breath comes out ragged, and I prop myself up on one elbow, while my other hand snakes its way back down. His eyes are glued to where my fingers slowly work their way in and out. In and out.
“I wonder what you taste like…” I whisper. “Your lips. Your cock. Do you ever wonder what I taste like?”
His jaw ticks once. “What do you think?”
“Why don’t you find out?”
I pull my fingers out and swirl them around the rim of his beer, then I bring the wetness back, rubbing faster, harder. I’m close, and when he brings the bottle to his lips and takes a long pull—his eyes never leaving mine—I’m done for. A primitive growl leaves his lips after he is done, and his tongue darts out, swiping over his lower lip to lick the remainder of my arousal. His lips are glistening with how I feel about him. With how much I want him.
“Pierce.” His name comes out as a whine, and then I climax long and hard, my mouth falling open in a silent scream. I start to close my legs out of reflex, but I feel two strong hands grip my knees, keeping me spread open for him. And then I’m coming again, long and hard.
“Fuck,” I whisper, still jerking from the intensity of my orgasm.
“Shit!” he roars, dropping his hands from my knees like they’re on fire. I’m still floating when he stands abruptly and walks away, slamming the door to the little bathroom behind him.
It gives me time to make myself comfortable in my new domain.
The one I will reign, if only for a few days.
The one where I will make him my king.