32. Chapter 32 #2
But there’s a buzzing in my chest. It starts low.
A sapling of an idea that first took root only days ago.
Just the faintest inkling that Boston and his family’s story might be something I could help change.
That maybe, sitting here in the backseat of the district attorney’s car, I’m closer to power than I realize.
And connections only hurt the people who don’t have any.
“How badly did you miss me?” Archer asks when we’re in his room. He’s stepping out of his jeans, his Ralph Lauren polo already on the floor, the scent of his cologne hanging in the air.
“A lot,” I tell him, trying to unzip my dress.
Archer grins and reaches around me, tugging the zipper down in one smooth motion. The dress pools at my feet.
“Yeah?” he murmurs, hands sliding down my sides. “Then show me how much.”
He kisses me, his tongue pushing past my lips while his hands fumble at my bra clasp.
“Give me a sec,” I mutter against his lips, pulling away a smidge to reach back and unhook my bra for him.
“I can’t,” Archer groans, chasing my mouth, his hands already at my hips, tugging at my panties. “Fuck. I’m so fucking hard already.”
He abandons my underwear only to grab my hand and move it to his erection, guiding my fingers along his length. “You feel that?”
I grasp it, stroking him the way he’s told me he likes it. His eyes shut as he sinks into the moment, into the pleasure I give him. I watch him. His blond hair’s still perfectly styled, his mouth slightly open, breath labored. His hands are balled into loose fists by his side.
My eyes trace his frame—still broad, still strong, except there are soft places now that I don't remember being there before. A slight heaviness through his middle, less definition to his arms and chest.
I didn’t notice this before. But then again, maybe I didn’t really look.
“God, Skye, take me into your mouth,” he grunts, urging me downward.
For half a second, I resist. It’s not that I don’t know what he wants. It’s just that I’m suddenly hyperaware of how choreographed this all feels.
Still, I lower myself in front of him, my knees hitting the carpet with a soft thud.
“Shit, yeah. Deeper. All the way,” Archer says, winding my hair around his hand as he thrusts.
I gag instantly, tears stinging my eyes. I grip his thighs until he loosens his hold enough for me to pull back and catch my breath.
What is going on with me that this suddenly feels so wrong?
I used to think this was normal. I’ve heard plenty of girls talk about sex like it’s just…
meh. I figured I’d endure. For the sake of the relationship.
Isn’t that what you’re supposed to do? Compromise.
Give a little more than you get. Make yourself agreeable enough, accommodating enough, that you’ll still matter when it's all said and done.
But everything inside me bristles.
“Stop doing that,” I whisper hoarsely before leaning forward again.
“Shh,” he murmurs. “Just come here.”
A second later, he’s tugging me upright and pushing me back onto the bed. He settles between my thighs, already guiding himself to where he clearly wants to be.
And suddenly it’s Boston’s face I see. His expression when I told him I’ve never had an orgasm, like it didn’t make sense that Archer wouldn’t even try to care about my pleasure.
A dangerous thought slips in: what if it doesn’t have to be like this?
I press my palms against Archer’s chest.
He blinks. “What?”
“Can you… could you maybe get me ready?” I ask quietly.
“Did you think I was gonna let you go without?” He reaches for the nightstand and grabs the bottle of lube.
I stare at it. Then at him. “No, I mean… maybe you could… with your mouth?”
His face contorts. “Babe, you know I don’t eat pussy.”
“Why not?”
“Because I don’t like it, Skye.”
“But I take you into my mouth,” I say carefully.
He leans back, irritation darkening his expression. “So what? Are you saying you don’t like doing that?”
“Well, I—”
“Why are you trying to ruin the damn mood?”
“I’m not,” I say softly. “I just thought maybe—”
“Oh fuck, fine,” he mutters suddenly, dropping between my legs.
His tongue touches me a second later.
It’s awful.
Sloppy. Uninterested. Clearly trying to prove a point. I close my eyes, willing my body to respond. But I already know it won’t.
Finally, I exhale. “Okay. Never mind.”
He lifts his head, annoyed. I scoot back, putting space between us.
“Told you,” he huffs. “I knew you wouldn’t get off like this.”
“You didn’t even try,” I say quietly.
“The fuck you talking about? Did I not just lick your pussy?”
The way he says it makes me feel dirty.
“Yeah,” I say, my voice tight. “But you didn’t try to make it feel good for me.”
“Because I don’t like it, Skye,” he snaps. He takes a deep breath. “Come on. Let me fuck you properly and we can forget—”
Forget. As if this is just a tiny hiccup on the way to his finish line. God, I’m so tired of pretending this is enough.
“No,” I say, soft but steady. I climb off the bed and start gathering my clothes.
Archer watches me, stunned. “Are you really that upset that I didn’t want to go down on you?”
“No.” I step into my dress. “I just…” I trail off. I don’t even know how to finish that sentence.
“Fine,” he says, his tone self-sacrificing. “I’ll suck it up and do it if it means that much to you.”
I shake my head. “I don’t want you to suck it up, Archer. I don’t want you to do anything you don’t want to do.”
He stares at me like he can’t process what’s happening.
“Okay, then what the fuck is the problem? Wait… are you PMSing?”
I blink. “What? No.”
“Sure seems like it. You’re acting fucking crazy.”
Weeks ago, I would’ve believed him. I would’ve convinced myself I overreacted and apologized for wanting something he didn’t feel like giving.
But looking at him now—at the annoyance on his face, at the inconvenience I’ve somehow become—it occurs to me that my happiness shouldn’t feel like a burden to the person who claims to love me.
“I want to go home,” I say quietly.
“What? No. You’re spending the night.”
“No, Archer,” I say, firm now. “Take me home. If you won’t, I’ll call a rideshare.”
“You’re seriously going to leave me here like this? All high and dry?”
I don’t answer.
I just walk out of his room.