13. Guilty Pleasure
13
Guilty Pleasure
Sophie
Texting Evan is part weakness, part hunger.
Like eating a thick slice of sweet sugary cake: you know it’s going to rot your teeth and clog your arteries eventually, but you crave the satisfaction enough in the moment that you don’t care about the future damage.
Texting Evan is part revenge, too.
Max and Anthony haven’t let a single day pass without some sly implication, and somehow their words have served only to fray away at my resolve.
They already think the worst of you , sneers the angry voice in my head, so why should you deprive yourself?
You’ve already been condemned—why not commit the crime?
And maybe texting Evan is just the truth of what’s inside my heart.
All that loneliness and pressure bearing down on me, and in the middle of it, the hard diamond truth is that I want Evan.
I don’t want my friends or my parents.
I don’t want casual chatter and polite conversation.
I want the solid mass of his body on mine, his laughing blue eyes, his hands, his affection, his attention.
I want to let all the dark hardness of me melt in the sunshine softness of him .
Why shouldn’t I have what I want?
It’s not like I haven’t earned it.
I text him to hurry, but I know I don’t need to.
Evan could be home or out partying or halfway across the world—he’ll come if I ask him to.
And that certainty is a balm, too.
It soothes the loneliness and dread crouched on my chest. It allows me to spend my evening in my bedroom, reading through cases and typing essays.
It gives me the patience to not keep checking my watch or my phone.
I almost jump out of my skin when I hear a tap at my window.
My pen drops from my fingers; I stand up from the bed, where I’m sitting with a dozen books, an essay bibliography half-drafted on my laptop.
I cross my room in the dim light cast by my desk lamp and roll up the blinds to find a grinning face staring back at me from behind the glass.
Mouth falling open, I try to roll up the sash window.
It holds for a moment, stiff with cold and humidity, and then gives way with a grinding noise, letting in a burst of cold air and scattered snowflakes.
The lamplight from my room falls on Evan, who’s balanced on the iron railing.
I grab his arms and pull him through, and he hops down, landing gracefully on the carpet.
“How on earth did you get up here?” I ask, heart hammering, glancing out of my second-floor window.
“Climbed the fire escape,” Evan says with a shrug.
His voice is low and rough; he’s wearing a black sweatshirt, hood pulled over his blond curls, snowflakes melting on his shoulders and arms. “Show me the dress, Sutton.”
“Shh,” I laugh breathlessly, raising a finger to his mouth, distracted, a little embarrassed.
“Let me close the window.”
He pulls me to him by the waist and reaches out to close the window one-handed.
His presence here feels almost surreal.
The dim light from my desk lamp barely reaches the corners of the room, casting long shadows over the clutter of books and papers.
The air is full of the scent of coffee and candle wax and highlighter ink, mixing now with the clean, cold smell of snow clinging to Evan’s hoodie, with the familiar cedarwood scent of his cologne.
“C’mon,” he says, backing me slowly into the room, his voice barely above a whisper.
“I wanna see it.”
Blood is pulsing red and hot in my veins.
My cheeks feel flushed, my entire body tense with anticipation.
“Take it off,” I tell him, emboldened by the force of his grip on my waist, by his presence, which feels too large for my small room.
“You’ll get a better look that way.”
He lets out a huff of dirty laughter.
My dress, which I bought for a networking party at a trendy bar, is simple and short and black, not interesting in the slightest. Evan grabs the hem and pulls it up over my head as we stumble back through my room, stifling our laughter.
I stand in nothing but my plain black underwear and tights while he holds up the dress with one fist.
“Yea,” he says.
“I like it a lot, actually.”
“Shut up.” I try to contain my grin as I snatch the dress out of his hand and toss it over the back of my desk chair.
Before I can take another step, Evan’s hauling me up against him, crushing his mouth to mine.
His lips are cold, wet with melted snow; I open my mouth and his tongue glides hotly against mine.
I kiss him back just as greedily, fingers curled into his shoulders, digging into the muscles I can feel even through his clothes.
We stumble across the room, still kissing, and I manage to shove him into the only corner of my bed that’s not covered with books.
I push him back against the pillows and straddle his waist, fingers scrambling to find his belt beneath the hem of his sweatshirt.
He watches me, blue eyes glinting dully in the shadow of his hood.
I yank his belt open with a satisfying clink, unzip him with a rough motion.
He bites down into his lip as his cock springs free, hard and gleaming at the tip.
Grabbing Evan by the collar, I pull him up to me and claim his mouth in another kiss, rubbing myself against the hard ridge of his erection.
He groans, and I swallow the sound in my mouth.
I suck his bottom lip and bite.
In response, he palms my breasts through my bra, seeks the nipples, pinches them until they’re hard, until I’m letting out tiny broken gasps.
“Dirty little masochist,” Evan whispers against my mouth.
I laugh. “Says you.”
He pushes my hips back, sliding me further down on his lap.
With brusque, unceremonious movements, he rips my tights open and pulls my panties to one side.
He cups me with a proprietary hand.
His fingers slide into me with an obscenely wet sound.
He smirks.
“Pain makes you wet,” he says huskily.
“No.” I wrap my arms around his neck and pull myself all the way against him, chest to chest, thighs squeezed around his hips.
“ You do.”
He wipes the smile off my mouth with a sudden hard thrust. My eyes roll back at the sensation, the divine pleasure of being stretched and filled and complete .
All the dark emptiness of me filled with the strong hard heat of him.
Braced with one arm around his neck and one against the wall, I bounce up and down on his lap.
My mind is a red haze; I almost forgot what it’s like to feel good—to feel this good.
I almost forgot what it’s like, the heat of Evan’s skin, the comforting strength of his limbs, the heart-stopping expression of desire and adoration when he looks up at me.
The sex is messy, rushed, dirty.
There’s no hiding from myself how much I’ve longed for this, how good he makes me feel.
He sucks on my neck, pinches my nipples, works my clit with a thumb he wets on my own tongue.
I come with embarrassing speed, like a surrender to a beloved foe, biting into his shoulder to stifle a hoarse cry.
He comes soon after, my hand plastered across his open mouth, his fingers dug into my waist so hard they leave bruises afterwards, slamming into me with rough erratic thrusts.
Afterwards, we slump sideways across the bed, my hair draped over textbooks and cases, one thigh thrown over Evan’s hips, kissing lazily as we catch our breaths.
“Missed you,” I murmur.
It’s surprisingly easy to tell him the truth, though I can’t quite bring myself to tell him all of it.
How much I’ve needed this—needed him.
How the loneliness has felt like a gaping wound, too raw and sore to heal, or how his presence here is the first time the ache has faded since I arrived.
And maybe I don’t need to tell him.
Maybe he knows, because there’s a warm glimmer in his eyes, an unspoken understanding, and he grins, crooked and sexy and a little sly.
“No shit.” And, rolling into me, his mouth pressed against my temple, voice a low, velvety whisper, “Missed you too.”