ve been selling myself for eighteen years.
Two weeks until senior year starts, and I’m surrounded by AP textbooks, pretending the world makes sense if you just highlight enough important passages. Pre-law readings wait in neat stacks. Color-coded tabs mark important sections.
This is who I am—the girl who prepares, the girl who controls what she can.
The girl with the five-year plan and the girl who definitely doesn’t spend every waking moment thinking about her stepbrother’s hands.
Lies. All lies.
Because ever since that night—the shower, Jade’s pornographic soundtrack through the wall, my first real orgasm courtesy of water pressure—my body has staged a full rebellion against my brain.
I know now what release feels like and what my body is capable of. The way heat builds low in my belly, how wetness pools between my thighs, the exact rhythm that makes my back arch and my vision go white.
I know the shape of every fantasy that gets me there.
And they all look like Caleb fucking Thornton.
Sunlight streams through my window, making everything look deceptively normal. Like I’m just a regular girl doing regular homework.
My hand drifts unconsciously—neck, collarbone, the swell of my breast through my thin tank top. My nipples are already hard, visible through the fabric.
Just once more. Then you’ll study. Then you’ll be normal.
I close my eyes and let myself fall.
In today’s fantasy, we’re back in the kitchen. He’s behind me, shirtless and warm, but this time he doesn’t pull away. His hands slide around my waist, pulling me back against him until I can feel how hard he is through his jeans.
His voice is low and mocking against my ear, the way it always is, but his hands tell a different story. He tells me he felt me shaking.
That he knows what I did in the shower that night.
That he opened the door on purpose.
“You liked listening, didn’t you, princess?” His fingers trail down my stomach, beneath my waistband—
“Having fun?”
My eyes fly open and bright blue eyes stare back at me.
Caleb is right there. Crouched beside my desk chair like some kind of demented guardian demon, so close I can see the darker flecks in his irises, the small scar near his ear.
Real and solid and here.
My hand freezes against my breast, caught literally red-handed in the middle of feeling myself up to thoughts of him.
Kill me. Kill me right now. Let the earth open up and—
I try to shove my chair back, to stand, to run, to die, anything but stay trapped here with him seeing everything written across my face. But he’s faster, one hand grabs my wrist and other slamming down on the armrest, caging me in.
“Going somewhere?” His voice is conversational, pleasant even, but his eyes are pure predator.
“Let go of me.”
I twist hard, trying to wrench free, but he uses my momentum against me. One sharp tug and I’m pulled forward, off-balance, tumbling toward him. My free hand slams against his chest to catch myself, palm flat against solid muscle through his t-shirt.
“Sit the fuck down, Serena.”
“Fuck you!”
I try to shove him, but it’s like pushing a brick wall. He doesn’t even sway, just watches my pathetic struggle with that infuriating half-smile that makes me want to commit felonies.
“You done?”
I stop fighting because my breath is coming in embarrassing pants and he looks like he could do this all day.
His eyes travel over my face—the flush, the rapid breathing, the way I won’t meet his gaze. A slow, cruel smile spreads across his mouth.
“So.” He releases my wrist but doesn’t move back, still close enough that I’m breathing his air. “Who’s the lucky bastard?”
“What?”
“Don’t play dumb. It’s not cute.” He gestures at me. “You were clearly getting yourself off to someone, so who is it? Some SAT tutor with a hard-on for the teacher’s pets? One of those debate nerds who follows you around like you’re made of cocaine?”
“I wasn’t—”
“Your face is the color of a fucking tomato and your breathing’s all fucked up.”
He leans back slightly, arms crossed, studying me with theatrical interest.
“So who’s got perfect little Serena all worked up? Must be someone truly pathetic if you’re reduced to touching yourself in the middle of the afternoon.”
“Get out of my room.”
“Is it that guy from calc? The one with the glasses who stares at your tits when you’re doing board work?” He tilts his head, considering. “No, wait. You’d never go for someone that obvious. Too desperate.”
“I said get out—”
This is wrong. This is hundred different flavors of fucked up.
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