Chapter 20
Chapter
Twenty
Isneak into my room at four a.m., change into my gym clothes, then sneak back out.
Almost none of today’s homework is done, but I don’t care.
For the first time in weeks, I’ve finally slept properly.
After waking up with Duncan’s arm flopped across my chest, his face hidden in my shoulder, I’m fucking thrilled.
(I finally get to smell his damn hair like I’ve been wanting to for weeks, and I’m not disappointed—he smells amazing, like mint and strawberry and something else that I can’t quite identify, something earthy and deep.) He lets out a sleepy protest and kisses me before I leave, which, frankly, is a fantastic start to my day.
Definitely the best I’ve had in a long time.
I don’t even care when Jordan spots the faded symbol drawn on my hip when my shirt rides up as I sit down at the start of class.
He’s been extra annoying lately, challenging me whenever possible, laughing when I can’t accomplish basic tasks.
Ever since the mirror incident, he’s taken great joy in proving that I’m not some kind of prodigy.
I’m not sure why he feels the need to do this—the mirror hasn’t worked since I broke it, forecasting only rivers of blood, refusing to summon any ghosts whatsoever.
He does a double-take when he spots the sigil, doesn’t bother looking away as I hurriedly adjust my shirt. Maybe it’s not the symbol he’s looking at. Maybe it’s the firm muscle there. Duncan’s not the only one impressed by my physique.
In class, we summon an assortment of rubber dog toys from across the room. I manage to hit myself in the face with a rubber pig, which squeaks loudly on impact. Laughter explodes around me. Jordan’s jaw drops, his shoulders shake.
Elarion massages his temples, sighs, and says, “Thank you, Dominic, for demonstrating exactly why I’ve switched us from vases to squeaky toys.”
Someone snickers. I turn beet red.
With a glare around the classroom, Elarion adds, “None of you have room for judgment. Every single one of you in this class have made mistakes that could’ve turned deadly.”
I want to throw up.
A few people have the decency to look chagrined. Jordan rolls his eyes, still laughing. I’m partnered with him for the rest of the semester, but it’s hard not to hate him when every mistake I make brings him such unfettered delight.
Why does he care so much? I’m not even the worst student in class (that honor goes to Henry Harvard, who breaks almost everything he touches, and can barely raise a teacup on command).
“Bet your mother’s proud,” Jordan muttered once after I broke a vase.
I snapped, “My mother’s dead,” and he had the audacity to hold up his palms like I was the one in the wrong.
After Elarion’s moved on to demonstrating how to open a book to the correct page without using anything but magic, Jordan whispers, “So you gotta tell me. Are you this bad on purpose?”
“Fuck off,” I hiss. I can’t hear the instructions over him.
“You just make it so easy,” he mocks.
The rest of class, he needles me, poking fun at my poor technique, my constant disorientation. I ignore him, but it’s difficult.
Prophecy and Prediction is worse. Jordan rolls his eyes at the rivers of blood the broken mirror insists on showing me, and gloats when he manages to summon one of the ghosts roaming the campus. It stares at us, dull-eyed and uncomprehending. I feel sick as its gaze roves past us, unseeing.
Then it’s my turn.
“At least you’ve got an acting career,” Jordan snipes as we watch blood stream across the mirror’s broken face. “Because I don’t think the fae are going to give you a real job.”
By the end of the day, I’m angry enough to skip studying with Jane. Instead, I go straight to the gym and stomp my way up a Stairmaster until I feel less like punching something and more like passing out.
Then I remember Jordan’s stupid sneer, and I spend another twenty minutes at the punching bag, wishing his ugly-ass face was on the other side of my glove.
I just barely make it to dinner, where a nervous-looking Duncan waves at me from Jane’s side.
My entire mood lifts. He must’ve been waiting for me.
Suddenly, I don’t want to punch things anymore.
I want to steal food off his plate and copy his homework, like a proper boyfriend.
Or whatever I am. Duncan can’t do casual, but I didn’t agree to anything, which leaves us in some sort of confusing limbo.
The word situationship has always implied fuck buddies to me, but it’s also the most accurate term in my vocabulary, and I’ve begrudgingly accepted it.
After I’ve loaded up a plate with an enormous salad and a Coke, I hurry to the table. “Sorry,” I say. “It’s been a stressful day.”
Jane rolls her eyes. “What did you set on fire?”
“Nothing!” I cry, feigning innocence.
Duncan raises his brow. “Are you setting things on fire often?”
“Magic is hard.” I take a huge bite of grilled chicken and lettuce. Duncan steals one of my croutons, which is my role, but my mouth is full, so I just let out a cry of indignation and try not to choke.
He smirks at me while it crunches in his mouth.
Jane looks between us like she has some suspicions about what might really be going on here, but I haven’t told her anything yet. Mostly because I have no idea how to explain it myself.
I mean, I like Duncan. I slept with him (literally and figuratively). Despite all the confusion, I’m drawn to him. His serious face, his gray eyes, the endless stream of notes he hands me every class, the little noise he made when I kissed him this morning.
He’s not as confident as my usual type. Not as accomplished.
But he’s comfortable in his own skin (except when I’m around, I’ve noticed), and he doesn’t need to prove anything, and that’s kinda hot in its own way.
Honestly, I’m excited to date someone lower maintenance, who doesn’t need to show off his boyfriend for clout.
“Jordan Halloway is such a dick,” I grumble between bites of salad.
Duncan’s spine straightens at this. His expression goes from playful to serious in an instant. “Wait, is he giving you trouble?”
“He’s my partner in Prophecy and Prediction and he thinks I’m an idiot,” I grumble.
“Divination isn’t exactly your strong suit,” says Jane.
She pushes her plate out of the way and takes a sip of her soda.
There’s a book lying face down on the table in front of her.
At this point, I know it’s for show. She pretends she’s ultra-studious (and for the most part, she is), but she’ll talk all through dinner if given the opportunity.
“Wow.” I spear a tomato and piece of chicken, pop it into my mouth. “Rude.”
“It’s not mine, either,” says Duncan glumly. “I can’t see into the future at all.”
“The mirror just shows me nonstop blood,” I complain. “It’s like a—a blood waterfall. Or something."
“Um.” Duncan stares at me in alarm. “That’s concerning.”
“Creepy,” Jane adds, suddenly wary.
I shrug. “None of the other weird shit I’ve seen has happened yet.”
But that’s not exactly true, I realize with a chill. I remember the terrible storm on the night we plunged into the sea, the way dark water crashed against the cliff as I dropped from the ledge.
Fuck. OK, that was probably a coincidence. Besides, I haven’t seen any red-eyed ghosts yet.
“Um, try not to bleed out,” Duncan says, expression torn between worried and bemused.
He’s so damn cute like this, stirring his fork through his pasta, contemplative, determined.
“I won’t,” I say, and stuff another forkful of salad into my mouth.
I end up in Duncan’s room again a couple of hours later. His legs tremble as I work his cock in my mouth. I take him apart slowly, methodically, savoring every gasp, every shiver, every moan. His hands are in my hair. I fucking love it when he can’t help but tug me a little closer.
He absolutely refuses to manhandle me, which would be sweet if I weren’t trying to break his resolve. I want him to lose control. I want to know what he’s like when he’s half-mad with lust. More importantly, I want to know what it takes to get him there.
But he seems like he’s really enjoying this, and I don’t want to ruin it for him, so I just pick up the pace a little bit, moving from worshipful to demanding. It’s time for him to cum, I decide, hollowing my cheeks, bobbing my head with enthusiasm.
He lets out a sharp little gasp that goes straight to my dick.
And fuck it, I’m hard, I’m still wearing all my clothes, and he seems to like everything I’m doing, so I look up at him through my eyelashes and make a show of palming myself through my jeans.
That gets me the reaction I want: tense muscles, a strangled little, “Oh, fuck,” that I want to hear again and again.
It’s so good that I close my eyes.
His thighs are tense beneath my hands. I can feel him in my throat, a length and girth that I should probably be intimidated by. I inhale through my nose, relax my muscles as much as I can while I drag my tongue along his cock.
Then I pull back. “You can fuck me, if you want,” I say. My voice is kind of hoarse. I wipe spit from my lips, dive back in while he’s staring down at me, wide-eyed and so still that I’m afraid I’ve fucked up.
But no, he’s just short-circuited. His fingers curl in my hair, hesitant. I give an encouraging moan, and then he finally gives me what I want, and thrusts into me.
He’s careful, but I’m not. I dig my fingers into his firm buttocks and give him everything I’ve got until he chokes, “Dominic, I’m gonna—”
I let out a hum and hollow my cheeks, and he spills into me with a long groan that will haunt my fantasies for decades. (Unless he does something hotter in the meantime, which he might.)
I pull back, plant a kiss on his thigh, then grin up at him, smug. I haven’t wiped my face yet.
“Holy shit,” he says. “You’re gonna have to give me a minute. I think you sucked my brains out.”
Exactly what I was aiming for. I can’t help but preen a little.
He grabs my hand, hauls me to the bed, manhandles my shirt off me (fuck, yes), runs an appreciative palm over my chest. The noise of approval he makes is enough to make me feel like I could bust out of my jeans.
Heaven help me, I want him to be attracted to me, for reasons I can’t name.
“You must work out a lot,” he says, and that’s not exactly sexy but I really like to be appreciated, so I flop back on the bed and nod an affirmative while flexing my abs.
He takes advantage of this opportunity to unbutton my jeans, pulling them down enough that he can release my cock, which pops free like it’s spring loaded.
Then he straddles my legs, grasps me in his hand, and lunges to kiss me.
Once I’m groaning into him, he pulls away, mouths at my pulse point, then down my chest, pausing at a nipple, which earns him a choked-off gasp.
“Those are sensitive,” I say, and he grins wickedly, returning his mouth to one while tweaking the other.
When I’m panting and fighting the urge to thrust up against him, he moves down.
Licks over my abs while he thumbs the head of my cock.
Shit. Fuck.
Then he finally puts his mouth on me. The sound I make is undignified and loud.
Felix, who lives next door, probably hears it.
I don’t have the wherewithal to be embarrassed.
Duncan presses my hips into the mattress, licks a stripe up my cock, sucks the tip into his mouth, then swallows the whole thing.
Oh my god, he’s going to kill me. It’s going to be awesome.
“You’re pretty good at this for somebody with no brains,” I gasp, lifting my head to watch.
He pauses, rolls his eyes, lets out a laugh that zips down my dick and into my fucking spine.
There are little bruises on my thighs from yesterday. Every time I see them, my reaction is bone deep, a little desperate. He wants me.
He claimed me, a part of my brain insists, and that’s kind of a weird, feral thought. I should probably be afraid of it, but I’m not. I just want him to bite me again.
But right now, he’s maintaining a fast rhythm, and I’m trying not to lose it. The sheets bunch where I grasp them, still wrinkled from last night.
I’m rapidly losing focus. I hook my ankles around his shoulders, and he holds my hips hostage so that he controls the pace. And fine, maybe I want to be indignant, but I love that he’s so demanding, so I just cover his hand with mine and hold on for the ride.
Which is embarrassingly short, but I’ve been desperate for a while now and I can’t hold back any longer. It’s an orgasm that threatens to rip me in half, and when I’m finished, he packs me back into my jeans and flops on top of me with a smirk. “How was that?”
“Excellent. Ten out of ten. No notes.”
He cocks his head, considers this. “I can do better than ten out of ten,” he decides, and nips at my ear.
I wrap my arms around him, huff a laugh into his neck. “I’ll hold you to it.”