Chapter 8
Chapter Eight
Ashleigh
H ot hands rove over my body, touching me, caressing me, and nearly driving me feral. Even though darkness coats my vision, I don’t need to see to know who it is running their fingers up and down over my skin. The scent is as familiar to me as my childhood bedroom.
Dean Anderson nudges my thighs open, forcing me to spread wide for him. Part of me wants to cry out, to beg him to stop this, but it’s only perfunctory. It’s not what I really want. As a Hartwell, it’s what I’m supposed to do.
Even with his stature, he’s still not who my parents would consider worthy enough to steal away my virginity in the middle of the night like a common thief. Granted, if it were Caldwell, I’m sure they wouldn’t care at all. In fact, they’d probably congratulate me, and pray we didn’t use protection.
Rich parents deserve rich grand babies to spoil after all. Shaking my head, I do my best to get back into the sensations washing over me, but already it’s tainted. His fingers, which felt so firm, so intent a moment ago, feel like a soft breeze against my skin.
No!
Why?
This isn’t fair!
In the inky blackness, I reach out, desperation coating my insides as they twist and clench. I just need him to touch me again, to stir those erotic feelings deep inside until I’m no longer able to think, able to breathe.
“Please,” I beg, peering into the gloom to find him. “Please don’t leave me like this.”
All the pent up need spirals deep inside, coiling through me like a snake winding itself around my very being. And still, he doesn’t respond. Fine then, I’ll just have to take matters into my own hands.
I spread my thighs even further and slide my fingers across my swollen clit. Already arousal drips from my opening, making every scrape of my fingertip against my sensitive skin feel all the more intense. Is he watching me? Do I want him to watch?
Fuck yeah, I want him to watch. I want him to see what he does to me, what my body so desperately needs and craves. Throwing my head back against the pillow, I wrench my hips open as wide as they’ll go and touch myself, edging my body closer to orgasm.
But I still can’t see him. Try as I might, I can’t see his face at all. All I can sense is his heavy breathing as he watches me. The spicy, masculine scent of his cologne surrounds me, smothering me as I take it into my lungs in deep gulps.
“You like that?” I rasp. “You like seeing me expose myself to you? What are you going to do about it? Don’t just sit there, do something!”
As if I finally shake him loose, he looms over me. His face is still muddled by the dark, but I see him. That stern slash to his lips as he glares down sends another tendril of need racing through me, bringing me ever closer to the brink.
It’s not enough. It’s not fucking enough.
“Please.” This time, a soft whimper trembles through my tone, sounding weak, needy, and pathetic to my ears.
Wanton.
Desperate.
Yearning.
I’ve never sounded like this before. And certainly not with anything Caldwell ever tried with me. The pompous stuff shirt could barely even get a civil sentence from my lips, let alone anything close to being erotic.
It’s not like that with Dean Anderson. The man should be off limits to me. He’s not who my parents would want for me. He’s not even someone I can probably legally be with.
And that’s why I crave him. It has to be. Some girls rebel by dying their hair or chopping it all off. I want to rebel by seducing the most powerful man in Loftry University and making him fall as hard for me as I’m falling for him.
It’s sick, really. It’s twisted and perverse. Yet, with every thought that pounds through my head, it only brings me closer to the cusp of release. Maybe it’s a good thing I’m seeing the psychiatrist in a few days. This certainly can’t be healthy.
But even as that thought blossoms through my mind, Dean Anderson leans over even further until our lips are just a breath apart. His strong, firm fingers wrap around my throat as he pins me against the pillow. The pressure should frighten me. It should terrify me.
All it does is make my own fingers fly faster over my clit as I strain for release. God, but I’m insane. I must be. I wait for him to say something, anything. But all he does is watch me as I try my best to come.
My insides clench so hard I almost cramp as I work myself over. Reaching my other hand down, I tease my nipples, plucking at them, pinching them until a flare of pain washes over me. That’s all it takes. Just a little bite of discomfort and my body explodes into a flurry of movement.
I undulate my hips up and down, humping on air as my core clenches around nothing. God, what would it feel like to have him fill me up with fingers, his tongue, his cock, something. Anything.
Another spasm steals my breath as soft whimpers flutter through my lips. Then, and only then, does his lips part. He’s going to say something. What? Is it to chastise me? To tell me I’m a good girl? What?
At first, I can’t hear the words. It’s as if his lips are moving, but no sound comes out. As my brow furrows, he tries again, only this time, it’s a single piercing sound.
With each opening of his mouth, a loud buzzing siren comes out. What the hell? This can’t be right.
It continues in an incessant rhythm—mouth opens and horrendous honk comes out. As I watch this odd display, his body drifts away from me like smoke rising off the hot asphalt in the bowels of the deep south. Suddenly, he’s gone.
As I blink, bright light spears my eyes, drawing a ragged groan from my lips. It was a dream. It was all a fucking dream.
Yet, here I am in bed with my hand shoved down my pajama pants and a blanket wrapped around my neck. Pathetic. Utterly pathetic. Turning over, I swipe off the alarm and debate trying to go back to sleep, but the phone keeps buzzing in my hand.
It’s not just the alarm that woke me up. I wipe the sleep from my eyes as I yawn and stretch. I don’t want to be awake right now. I want to go back to la la land with a hot dean whose glare can make me wetter than anything else I’ve experienced.
Unfortunately, that won’t be the case. Though I’m not sure who’s blowing up my phone, they can wait until I’m caffeinated enough to deal with it. Besides, at ten am on a Thursday, I’m sure they have much better things to do. It’s not like I’m late for any classes, and since I’m the only one at the Loftry Lantern, no one should be expecting me.
Honestly, what I wanted was a nice, leisurely morning to write up my article about last night’s ‘detriment’ and get some homework done. Masturbating to the dean and waking up groggy was certainly not on the list.
As I get my coffee pod into the machine, I scroll through my phone and nearly drop it back onto the counter. How could I forget the paper going out? Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck.
Not that I regret any of it. I’m just not in the right mindset to think about it right now. Not when I can still feel Dean Anderson’s phantom hand around my throat. Setting my coffee stuff down, I curl back up on my bed and look through all the notifications.
Many are ones I normally expect around this time, however, my social media notifications are off the charts. My fingers tremble as I open the app and stare down at the response to my article.
Hate you for this.
I hope you die too. How can you make light of something like this?
It’s as if an overdose is now something to be sensationalized. Thanks a lot.
He was a paragon in this school. How dare you use him to make yourself a name?
Finally, someone’s calling out the football team. Thanks! Care to do baseball next?
So was it murder or overdose? This article is so vague. Lame. I thought you were supposed to bring the “hard-hitting” news. Next.
Are you serious!?!?!? What’s with this clickbaity bullshit?
Woohoo! Take down the football team! Way to go!!!
Over and over the mixed messages pepper the screen. Though a good amount of students seem happy with the unrepentant, unapologetic facts, many are not. It makes sense, though.
Chase Ackerman was seen as a god on this campus. No one likes it when their gods turn to fallen idols. Besides, what else did they expect of me? I added in there that foul play could have been at fault. It certainly gives plausible deniability that maybe he wasn’t so fallible.
Ugh. Despite everything, I just feel so fucking alone. They always say it’s loneliest at the top, but until this moment, I don’t think I’ve ever truly felt that. As I nibble on my lower lip, I pull up my text messages. There’s only one person I can think of who will back me up on all of this.
Ashleigh
Hey...
You know the article I wrote about the football player that died? Well, it’s totally blowing up, and not in the best way. I’m really overthinking things and would love to chat before class. You know, blow off some steam and talk about some fun stuff?
I have an idea for the next issue that will hopefully get me some answers about that sorority we keep talking about. Let me know if you’re up for lunch. My treat.
As I scroll back up, a frown furrows my brows until a light ache starts up between my eyes. When I first met her, we were constantly texting back and forth. Now, it seems as if the conversation has turned one-sided. Not for long. Not really.
The last time she messaged me was the day she was supposed to have that ‘not date’ with that guy. I would have gone with her, but my parents made other plans with me. She wouldn’t hold a grudge. Right?
Also, I wanna hear all about your date! How did it go? Was the guy a dork? Did you get anywhere? Was he a good kisser? I want the deets!
Several moments go by with no response. Unease gnaws at my gut as I wonder if I truly fucked up the first friendship I found here at Loftry. Hopefully she’s just in class and that’s why she’s not answering me.
As I throw on some clothes, my phone buzzes, perking me up just a touch. Unfortunately, when I see the name, my heart sinks back down.
Dean Anderson
My office. Now. I don’t give a fuck if you’re still asleep. Get some goddamn clothes on and get here immediately.
Not Marnie. And by the clipped way he’s texting, Dean Anderson is furious. I should be scared, terrified, even. But I’m not. What’s the worst he can do? Paddle me again? Such a hardship.
My lips quirk into a smile as I throw on my shoes and head out the door. As I reach my car, my phone buzzes again. Hopefully, he hasn’t changed his mind. Instead of Dean Anderson, however, Marnie texts me back!
Marnie
Date sucked.
Dude couldn’t find a clit if he had both hands and a flashlight.
Fucking prick just felt me up, got a hard on, then poof. He was gone.
My brain fuzzes a bit as I reread the message. It’s not like Marnie to cuss, let alone let a guy fondle her. But then, maybe I just don’t know her that well?
Wow. That really sucks. Wanna talk about it over brunch?
Look at you miss fancy and your brunch.
Can’t. I’m back home with an emergency.
Don’t text me again.
I’m far too busy to talk to anyone.
Talk about abrupt. Despite her demand for me to leave her alone, I want nothing more than to message her again and figure out what’s wrong. This isn’t like her. She’s never talked like this before. If I didn’t know any better, I’d think someone hacked her phone, or I got the wrong number.
Based on the other texts between us, it’s definitely hers. Maybe she’s just stressed because of the emergency. Try as I might, my conscience won’t let this go.
I’m here if you need me. Sorry things are so rough. Seriously, if you need anything. I’ll make it happen.
Don’t you worry about me. Trust me. I got every fucking thing I need right here. I don’t need anything else.
And... you’re sure we’re okay? Like I didn’t piss you off, right? I’m sorry I couldn’t be a plus one to the date, but you know my parents.
Bitch are you dumb?
How many times do I need to tell you to shut the fuck up and leave me alone?
If you don’t stop being a problem for me, I’ll make it a problem for you.
For the last time, leave me the fuck alone.
I don’t need you.
I don’t need anyone.
I don’t need anything.
I have exactly what I need to be satisfied.
Stop blowing up my phone and get a fucking life.
Get laid or something. Damn. So fucking uptight.
For a moment, I sit in my car and stare at the screen, my heart pounding as I read and reread the messages. Something just isn’t right. Why would she talk to me like this? Like, I know stress and grief can do a lot to people, but she seemed so quiet, so mild-mannered.
It’s got to be something really wrong for her to act this way. I can only hope whatever it is resolves quickly so she can come back to school. Maybe it would all be better if we could see each other face to face. As my finger hovers over the camera icon, I force myself to let it be. No good will come of me making her even angrier and more stressed.
Glancing up at the main building as it looms in the middle of campus, I square my shoulders and start the car. Besides, somewhere up there, Dean Anderson is waiting for me. No doubt, he’s pacing in his office cursing the day he ever said yes to allowing me to start the Loftry Lantern.
If I’m going to make it as a journalist, I need to be prepared for all the consequences... even the ones of my own making.