Chapter Thirty-Seven
Lilac
Irvin told me to meet him in the library on campus, which was strange because we have a library at home. And it’s midnight. The library is open twenty-four hours for people who like to study.
What was up with Irvin last night, asking me questions about him not fucking me anymore?
A part of me wanted to admit that if he did, I would be somewhat upset with him.
He’s up to something, but I can’t pinpoint what it is.
That’s why I told him I would fuck Jameson.
As long as he’s not aware that I suspect he’s the killer, I can play his games.
Irvin leans against a wooden desk with his hand tucked into his pocket. The dim lights glow, and the library is bare. The warm air cools my face, and I unwrap my scarf from my neck, then set my book bag down on the checkered floor.
I need to keep my cool around Irvin and not show any emotions. I feel so shameful for getting annoyed with him for asking those silly questions. I’m not the one who’s obsessed with him—it’s the other way around.
I fold my arms across my chest.
“Why did you want me to meet you here?”
He strokes my cheek, grabs my hand, leads me to a study room, and locks the door. The room is small, with a tiny window, a basic wooden desk, and two chairs.
I wrap my arms around his neck and lean in for a kiss, but he denies me. I need him to believe I still want him. If he knows I suspect him, I could be next on his list. If he’s the killer, how would I handle it? Could I truly let him go?
The guilt of wanting him eats at me like a disease.
I shake my head and lean in for another kiss. Irvin turns his head.
Odd.
Why is he denying my kisses? Does my breath smell like shit or something?
I place my hand over my mouth and blow into my palm—my breath is fine.
He steps back and slides his fingers into his pockets. His eyes fix on my mouth, then he licks his lips.
“I need your help with something. I need motivation to study,” he says, his tone husky.
I frown, rocking on my heels.
“You study at graduate level, and I’m undergrad. How can I possibly help you with your studies?”
And why is he denying me kisses? I want to ask, but I refrain. I shouldn’t want his touch. I shouldn’t care if he doesn’t want to kiss me, but it bothers me.
He closes the small blinds in the window, shielding the room from the cloudy sky. The weather has been nothing but cloudy, rainy, and cold lately. Sometimes it reminds me of Seattle.
My heart sinks to the bottom of my stomach—but in a good way. I perch in the wooden chair, yank out my laptop from my backpack, and set it down on the table.
Irvin closes the laptop, moves it aside, and stands in front of me.
“Your lips are to be wrapped around my dick.”
My heart hammers in my chest. My knees weaken. Desire blossoms in the pit of my stomach.
I’m so glad he doesn’t know he’s a suspect in my eyes. I can get close to him now.
I nod. I’ve been craving his dick in my mouth. And if he doesn’t think I’m onto him, he’ll let his guard down completely.
I tie my hair into a messy bun, drop to my knees under the desk, and feel my panties dampen as I blink slowly. I slide him between my lips, suck the tip, pumping up and down his shaft. The head hits the back of my throat. Irvin pushes my head down until I choke and gag, spit dribbling down my chin.
He moans my name as he tries to type on his laptop.
“My love, your mouth feels so warm around me.”
He shoves my head down, and I try to breathe through my mouth without choking.
Several seconds later, he explodes in my mouth. He tastes salty and warm. I swallow and look up at him.
He hurries, tucks himself back into his pants, puts his laptop into his backpack, then grabs my book bag and slings it over his shoulder.
Without a word, he watches me like a hawk and strokes my cheek.
Usually, he tries to fuck me after he fucks my mouth, but he’s acting nonchalant now. As if he didn’t just use me as a blow-up doll.
I fidget with my wedding band. Suddenly, it’s stuffy in the small room.
“Are you going to fuck me now, Irvin?”
He shakes his head, then taps his finger on my nose.
My eyes narrow.
“Why not?” My breathing is sharp, unsteady.
“I have something to do, but first I’m going to take you home.”
I try to play it cool, but I don’t understand his behavior. One minute he acts like he craves me, and the next he’s acting like he doesn’t care about my needs.
“What the fuck, Irvin? Don’t you think it’s fucked up to use me for a blow job and not fuck me?”
He shrugs.
This bastard shrugs.
What the fuck is going on?
“You wouldn’t care if I stopped fucking you, right? So why does it matter if I use your mouth?”
“Why are you being an asshole?”
He strokes my cheek again. I press my lips to his and wrap my arms around his shoulders, but he pulls away.
What the fuck is going on?
“Are you playing a game with me?” I snap.
“No, I’m not.”
I step forward, but he steps back, then tucks a strand of hair behind my ear. I step forward again. He has never made me more confused than I already am.
“I’ll take you home, Lilac.”
The car ride is eerily silent. I look at Irvin, and his face is devoid of emotion.
What was that back there?
He never leaves me hanging. He never uses me just to get off.
Now that he thinks I don’t crave him, he’s using me for sex. But that’s what I wanted, right? To just use each other for sex. That I only want sex from him. Yes, I admitted to him that I wanted him, but that doesn’t mean I want more with him.
I wasn’t expecting him to treat me like a whore, like I don’t matter to him. Why should I care that I don’t matter to him? Why should I care if he’s only using me for sex? What we have doesn’t mean shit to me. Or at least I don’t think it does.
I place my hand on his, but he pulls away. Tears threaten my eyes. I don’t know why. I don’t know why I’m having emotional whiplash. I don’t know why his rejection hurts.
A lump forms in the back of my throat as I listen to the rain beating on the roof of the car. Stars are painted across the dark sky.
Inside the bedroom, I change into my pajamas while he changes into another suit. I follow him to the front door.
So now he’s leaving in the middle of the night? He never leaves me at night unless he has to go to his trials for the club.
“Where are you going, Irvin?”
His eyes don’t meet mine. “Out with Jameson.”
“Where?”
“Just out.”
I stand in front of the door to block him. “Why is it fair that you have to know exactly where I’m going, but you can’t tell me where you’re going?”
He leans down and kisses my forehead. His hot-and-cold behavior is getting on my last nerve.
“I’ll see you tomorrow morning to pick you up from school.”
Why won’t he touch me? Why is he acting cold toward me?
I refrain from saying it aloud. I don’t want to sound desperate. I don’t want to seem pissed off over him using me.
Is this one of his mind games? Why is he acting distant? Did I do something to upset him?
I desire him and want him—so why is he being an ass?
Maybe he’s not. Maybe he really is fine with this new arrangement, and I’m way in over my head. Maybe he’s getting the hint that I don’t love him or want him the way he thinks.
My chest tightens.
I suddenly flinch as I watch him shut the door.
Where is he going this late at night?
I should follow him, track him like he does me.
I shake my head. I’m not a stalker. If he doesn’t want to be around me, I need to give him his space.
Even if I’m right about him being the killer, I still crave his touch. I can’t focus without him touching me.
Have I gone crazy? Have I lost my sense of self?
I’m losing my mind.
I stride to the living room and turn on Supernatural. I try to watch the show, but it’s no use. All I can think about is what happened back at the library.