“But if you kiss me,” he continues, “I won’t be held responsible for what happens after that. I might be the best thing that ever happens to you. I might destroy you. I might make you feel all kinds of terrifying things. You might hate me when we’re done. You might fall in love with me. I’m not promising you a damn thing except you’ll be a better person when you come out the other side.”
With that, he’s gone, leaving a gush of cool air where his body had been. My hands tremble. I’m swallowing breaths as if I’d been drowning. Minutes blur together until I gather my composure and peek out to the hallway.
He’s gone.
He meant what he said.
The choice is mine.
And I choose…
CHAPTER 7
What the fuck am I doing?
I’m standing naked, taking a cold shower because it’s the only thing that can remedy the burden between my legs.
I crossed the line with Waverly. I meant to provoke her. I meant to make her think. Instead I took it a step too far.
That soft, fuckable, virgin mouth.
Those big, clear blue eyes.
Her long, sandy hair that cascades down those grip-able shoulders and grazes the top of her cleavage.
Sigh.
She’s a good girl.
I need to leave her alone, because at the end of the day, she’s not my problem. In a few short months I’ll be out of here, and I won’t think about her twice.
I need to let her grow up with her back-assward belief system. Let her wear her purity ring and sacred temple garments and be married off as the fifth or sixth wife to some fifty-year-old bastard that Mark will inevitably set her up with.
I pound my fist into the acrylic of the shower, followed by my forehead.
She’s not my fucking problem.
But this whole world she lives in is nothing but abuse.
Watching Bellamy and Waverly being raised to believe their worth is boiled down to sharing a husband with a group of other brainwashed women, birthing as many babies as their bodies can handle, and cooking and cleaning infuriates me.
Especially when it’s tied into religion, as if God wants them to be second-fucking-class citizens.
I slap a fistful of shampoo into my hair and lather. Hard. My fingers dig into my scalp.
“You’re never going to be good enough for one of those girls,” my father would say after church whenever he caught me checking out the deacon’s daughters. “Don’t even try. They need real men are the ones who make their fathers proud. Not some promiscuous pencil-dick like you.”
Religion and modern-day human sexuality are a dangerous mix. I told that once to my sex-ed teacher, which prompted a phone call to my father, which resulted in a belt beating that night before dinner.
I jerk the water to warm, unable to tolerate the cold a moment longer, and think of Waverly again. My cock hardens in an instant and I grip it with my left hand, rubbing and tugging as water beads down my body. When I’m fully erect, my balls tighten and swell.
I shut my eyes tight as I imagine Waverly’s pink tongue tasting the tip of my dick before her mouth takes the rest. I imagine looking down, my eyes getting lost in hers as she moans with each lick and stroke. My free hand clenches as I envision a handful of her silky hair threading through my fingers.
Everything becomes clear as day for a second.
Waverly needs me.
She needs me and she doesn’t even know it.
I’m the only one who can save her. I’m the only one who can teach her that sins of the flesh are perfectly normal—dangerous to ignore, even. Something tells me she’s saving herself for some polygamous husband who sees her as nothing but a vessel in which to plant his delusional seed.
My moment of clarity comes to a grinding halt when my mind goes blank, my body goes numb, and I cum all over the wall of the acrylic shower I share with my two “sisters.”
I twist the water off and wrap a towel around my waist before heading down the hall to my room. I don’t feel guilty. I feel clearheaded. I know what I need to do.
I’m walking with purpose now.
I strut down the hall like a goddamned peacock, gazing into Waverly’s room as I pass by. She’s not in there. She’s probably hiding from me. Shit. I’ve probably traumatized her.
Waverly makes me want sex like Beyoncé makes me want to put a ring on it.
I remind myself not everyone lost their virginity at fourteen or screwed their stepmother multiple times a week since the day they got their driver’s license. Some might say I’m oversexed. I say I’m liberated. My cock, my sexuality, is the only part of me I’ve ever been able to control.
But I’m not in it to fuck her. Unless she wants it. I’m not a predator. I’m a beacon of change. A catalyst. I’m here to bring about a longitudinal shift that will open her eyes in ways she’s only ever dreamed of.
If she chooses to accept it.
I twist the handle to my room, dropping my towel at the same time.
Only I’m not alone.
Found her.
CHAPTER 8
So that’s what a penis looks like in real life.
“What are you doing in here?” He scrambles for the towel he’s just dropped, covering up as fast as he can. I’m shocked. I fully expect him to flaunt it in my face. Wag it around a little. Make a show of it.
I’m not sure if it’s big or small. I’ve nothing to compare it to. I only look at it for half a second because it’s kind of funny-looking, this situation is weird, and I’m trying my hardest to act like none of this fazes me.