Arrogant Bastard(24)

His words echo in my mind, right along with the words of my father. They align like two opposing views, rivaling for the big win, and contrasting. It’s almost as if my entire life, my father has taught me the sky is one shade of blue, and then Jensen comes along and tells me the sky can be whatever shade I want it to be.

Choices.

That’s the real issue here.

Jensen thinks I have no choice in regards to what I do with my body. I have to prove him wrong.

I’m wet. My panties are soaked.

But maybe he’s not wrong?

I’m an eighteen-year-old woman, and I’m afraid to pleasure myself because my entire life I’ve been told it’s wrong.

My nipples harden, becoming so sensitive that the mere sensation of the lining of my bra cups against them is painful.

Is it wrong?

Am I afraid to think for myself? Is that what’s happening?

I bury my face head down in my pillow and scrunch my face. The ache between my legs hasn’t subsided yet. If anything, it has deepened, becoming more pronounced than before. My right hand pulls from beneath the pillow and travels down the length of my side until it wedges beneath my hips. My fingers slip below my waistband once more.

The racing thoughts are gone.

The hemming and hawing is over.

My fingers work between my folds, pressing along the most sensitive part of me because that’s what feels best. I’m growing wetter with each massage. I press harder, rubbing until my face is twisted and all I feel is a buildup of pressure inside. My middle finger finds my entrance as my palm continues rubbing the rest of me with each stroke.

I rake my teeth over my bottom lip as I picture Jensen, imagining his body is weighing me down and we’re both tangled in a mess of white sheets and covered by the veil of night. I want to make a noise, but I have to be quiet. If Jensen were here, I imagine he’d cover my mouth with his strong hand.

One finger is suddenly not enough. I try two.

Much better.

My hips buck as the pressure mounts, but I’m not ready for it to end. It’s the greatest physical feeling I’ve ever felt in my entire life. My fingers press deeper inside me. Faster. Harder. The ache is painful almost, building and building until there’s nowhere else for it to go.

I think of Jensen again.

I think about his big, hard—

And then my body tingles, tightens, and quivers. My mind blanks. I’m pulsing below, hard and quick. My body contorts, and a wave of euphoria rushes over me from head to toe.

When the possessive exultation subsides, I’m as limp as a noodle, all my energy drained clean. My fingers still rest inside me, soaked and pruned from my aroused state.

I couldn’t move even if I wanted to.

My lips twist into a pleasured grin.

I did that. I chose to do that.

Me.

Who knew my body could do something so amazing?

Choice is a beautiful thing.





CHAPTER 9





“Missed you last night, Waverly.” Mark unfolds his newspaper at breakfast the next morning. His face is scrunched, scrutinizing his second oldest daughter as she eats her scrambled eggs in silence.

She’s been awfully quiet this morning, and I’ve opted to leave her alone. I think I pushed her too hard the night before, and I’ve still got five months left of living here. My end goal—graduating high school and moving to California—is way more important than convincing some prudish virgin to finger herself.

I stifle a laugh, my gaze snapping to Waverly. Her cheeks flush and she reaches for her juice. She won’t make eye contact with anyone.

Oh, my God. She totally did it.

I kick her leg under the table.

“Hey.” Bellamy shoots me a dirty look.

Oops.

“Sorry,” I mutter, lowering my head so she can’t see the shit-eating grin on my face.

“I was just tired last night,” Waverly says to her father. “Went up to my room and did some homework, and then I went to bed early.”

Fuck. She’s a terrible liar. Must be hard being habitually honest. She couldn’t tell a lie to save her life.

“Hm.” Mark is studying her like a book. Wonder what he’d think if he knew his precious, virginal daughter, the apple of his eye, his pride and joy, fingered herself last night while she thought of her new stepbrother? “Went looking for you. You weren’t in your room after dinner last night.”

“I did some laundry,” she says, shrugging a shoulder.

“Oh, Mark, did I tell you? The HVAC technician is coming today around ten to tune up my furnace,” Summer interrupts.

Mark mumbles something to her, but his gaze is still transfixed on his red-faced, fidgeting daughter.

The man is not stupid. He’s not naïve or blind to a damn thing that goes on under his three roofs. I know this because any man who uses religion as a weapon or a manipulative tool is a freaking mastermind. What man could convince three women to marry him, have his babies, grow their hair long so they can wash his feet with it in Heaven, serve and satisfy him, and make them feel like they’re the ones benefitting from this arrangement?