The Force of Gravity(14)

In all the years I’ve known him, I don’t think I’ve ever seen Tommy vulnerable. His wary eyes drill into me, puncturing tiny holes into my heart. What has he ever done to me, really? Besides the drunken fight, he’s been nothing but good to me. I can’t exactly hate him for wanting to go all the way—he’s no different than any other guy in that area. There’s no excuse for how he treated me, but I guess I did push him over the edge.

“No,” I whisper.

His lips collide into mine, and it takes me a moment before I can participate. He pulls me to the bed beside him and slowly lays me down. He slips his hand underneath the back of my camisole and fumbles with my bra clasp, but I’m quick to stop him.

He always moves so damn fast.

I break my lips away from his. “My parents are downstairs.”

Giving me a wolfish grin, he unhooks my bra. “So? They love me. And you look hot tonight.”

My hair is pulled into a sloppy bun, I’m wearing no makeup, and I’m sporting sweatpants—I swear he’d still be aroused if I was wearing a trash bag. I roll my eyes. “Okay, but just for a minute.”

I reach for my desk lamp and flip the switch. Darkness floods my bedroom, and I slip out of my bra. He shifts his body so he’s between my legs and slides my top off over my head. His fervent hands travel down my body and as soon as his mouth makes contact with my bare chest, my mind drifts to Mr. Slate.

No!

A tremor runs down my body as his striking face flickers behind my eyelids, and I quickly shove him out of my mind—I’m with Tommy. It becomes a mantra in my head: I’m with Tommy, I’m with Tommy, I’m with Tommy. A spark ignites in my chest, my skin suddenly sensitive to his touch. Focus! But I soon feel myself weakening . . . slipping . . .

Oh, no.

The last of my willpower enervates as I surrender to my instincts and imagine Mr. Slate on top of me. My breathing promptly increases, and with my eyes squeezed shut, I pull his face to mine. A light moan escapes my throat as I use Tommy’s body to kiss Mr. Slate with a passion that has been building for weeks. I lock my thighs around him, feeling him against me.

“Kaley,” Tommy whispers in surprise, but all I hear is Mr. Slate’s silky voice.

I quiver underneath a pair of eager hands as they slither below my waist, tugging on my sweatpants. The drawstring tightens as he pulls, and he stops when I grab his hand. Instead of pushing him away, I fumble with the knot until I loosen the strings. He hesitates before returning his hand to my waist, and to his surprise, I welcome the action and quickly unfasten his jeans. I hear him gasp as I slide my hand inside Mr. Slate’s boxer shorts. Grunting, he leans into me, his lips moving faster against mine. He cautiously pulls on my sweats, slowly inching them down. I squirm beneath him, hungry for contact, his slow pace torturing me. A pulsating ache grows like a weed below my waist, and I silently rejoice. My body is finally reacting the way it’s supposed to! I don’t want to lose this feeling.

“Touch me,” I whisper.

His breathing becomes ragged as I guide his hand farther down. With my eyes still tightly sealed, I focus on Mr. Slate’s fingers as he slips them underneath my white cotton panties, and I inhale sharply at the brief contact. His fingers struggle to inch closer, and I yank down my sweats to give him better access. My anticipation is interrupted by the sound of footsteps climbing the stairs, and Tommy leaps off the bed.

Annoyed at the timing, but grateful for hardwood floors, I pull up my sweatpants and search for my camisole in a panic. Tommy flicks on my desk lamp and fastens his jeans. I spot my top on the floor and frantically pull it over my head. Just as I’m kicking my bra underneath the bed, I hear a knock on my door.

“Come in,” I say, my voice two pitches too high.

When the door swings open, I’m sitting on my bed with my knees to my chest, while Tommy plays it cool in the chair. My mom enters, carrying a basket of laundry, and I pray we don’t look suspicious. She sets a stack of clothes on my dresser and turns to Tommy. “I forgot to ask about your game. Did you win yesterday?”

“We lost, actually,” he replies. I can tell he’s still trying to catch his breath, but my mom doesn’t seem to notice.

“Oh, that’s too bad. See, Kay? You should’ve gone. You would’ve been his good luck charm,” she teases. She turns to Tommy. “I told her she could’ve taken my car.” She smiles at us both and closes the door behind her—man, my parents really do trust him.

Tommy turns in the chair and faces me. “Now that I think about it, your car wasn’t in the driveway. Where is it?”

“In the shop. I need a new alternator.”

“Oh.” Desire returns to his eyes like he wants to get back to where we were, but with the lights now on, I am no longer inspired. I feel guilty as hell for what I’ve just done, but equally relieved to find out that my body isn’t broken. As it turns out, I can feel sexual desires just like everybody else—I just need the right person.

Too bad my body picked the very worst person to react to.

“What are you thinking about?” he asks, his eyes burning with lust.

“Uh . . .” Quick, change the subject. “Would you mind taking me to school tomorrow?”

He smiles. “Sure.”

I am the worst person on the planet right now. Of course he’ll take me to school tomorrow. After what just went down, he’d fly me to the moon if I asked him.

“You know, I think it’s better this way,” he says.

“What?”

“You going to ASU. We can hang out more, just the two of us. Move forward in our relationship.”

Yeah, I know what that means.

“This is a good thing,” he says, upbeat.

I purse my lips into a hard line. “Yeah, maybe.”

He moves back over to the bed.

Uh-oh.

Taking advantage of the easy access, he slides his hands up my top and presses his lips against mine, claiming me with his tongue.

“I know you want it,” he whispers in between kisses. “It’s obvious, Kay. Why don’t you just let it happen?”

Mr. Slate’s molten-brown eyes flash in my mind, and I’m tempted to turn off the lamp again. It felt so incredible . . . so wickedly hot.

But so wrong.

I maneuver my way out of his grip and hop off the bed. My pants slide down my hip, and I scramble to tie the drawstring. “I’m sorry, but come on, my mom almost caught us. I don’t want to take another chance.”

His gaze wavers on my braless chest before lifting to my face. “Okay,” he groans, standing up. “I guess I should go.” He squeezes my backside and kisses me once more. “I’ll see you in the morning, babe.” A new flicker of light shines through his powder-blue eyes. His entire demeanor is different now . . . excited. If he was hard to fend off before, he’ll be near-impossible now.

When he’s gone, I climb into bed. Even though I’m way too wired to sleep right now, I burrow myself under the covers.

It’s time for a reality check.

There’s no more denying it. I’ve tried for weeks, but the truth is, I have serious feelings for Mr. Slate. I’m not entirely sure what these feeling are, but they are stronger than anything I have ever felt in my entire life. Maybe he isn’t just a simple escape . . . maybe he’s something more. I simultaneously feel ashamed and relieved as I finally admit the truth to myself.

Despite the impossibility of it all—whether it’s The Blonde, the age difference, or the fact that he’s my teacher—I just can’t get Friday night out of my mind. My pulse quickens as the memories rush back all at once. My mind traces back to the school parking lot, and I smile to myself, remembering how the golden glow of the sun set around his handsome face . . . the way he leaned against my car: How old are you, Kaley? What was once an innocent question now has my head spinning. Why did he ask me that? Maybe he was just curious . . . maybe it was just a simple inquiry to fill the silence. But then, why was he so flustered when the custodian walked outside?

Butterflies swoop down into my stomach, flittering in circles, as my mind slips back to the darkened movie theater . . . when I caught his eyes on my legs. There was no mistaking that. I burrow deeper underneath the covers, blood burning through my veins. I can’t forget the intoxicating scent of his jacket draped over me, giving me unexpected comfort. And as much as I’ve tried not to think about it, I can’t let go of the ride home: He’s an idiot for letting you walk away in that dress tonight.

Suddenly, restlessness stirs within me, and I am in dire need of his touch. I have never longed for anyone before, but feel a need for him that is so intense, I can no longer ignore the magnitude of my feelings. Heat creeps through my body, and I kick away the sheets in frustration. Before tonight, I figured my crush on him was partly because he’s unattainable. I thought he was safe—I could never have him, so I would never have to worry about it going past my comfort zone, like I do with Tommy. But now I realize there’s nothing safe about this man. Because given the opportunity . . . it’s clear to me that I would let him have me . . . all of me.

The harsh truth this: I want him. I need him. My body literally aches for him.

There’s no going back now.