doesnât turn up. Itâs not exactly a surpriseâfar from it. I would have been pretty shocked if sheâd turned up.
She made pretty clear her intention to avoid me. But if she really wanted me out of her life, she probably shouldnât have let me fuck her from behind and come all over her. Because now, I donât want anything else but to do it again.
Over and over again.
Whatever strategy was behind that move, I suppose I can sort of work out. I made her come with my mouth that night so she probably assumed I chased her down to claim the orgasm I was owed in return. It would be exactly like Sophie to assume sex works exactly like a chess match, with two opponents facing each other across the board and taking turns making moves against one another.
What did she say again?
âYou won.â
Like having sex with her was a victory, a way of scoring a point against her.
If thereâs one thing Iâve learned this year, itâs that for someone so smart, Sophie can be really fucking stupid sometimes.
Sex isnât a game of chess where one person wins and one person loses. Sophie hasnât ceded a victory to me the way she so clearly believes. She didnât let me win the battle just so she could end the war.
Quite the opposite.
If I wanted Sophie before, fucking her only made me want her more. Because now, all I can think about is making Sophie pant and moan and arch against me. Sliding my fingers against her pussy, feeling how wet and ready she is for me. Rubbing my cock against her pussy, her breasts, sliding it between her arrogant lips. All I can think about is fucking her hard and punishingly, making her feel as broken as I did when she fucked me and refused to look at my face.
But I also want so much more than that.
In spite of how cruel she is, I still want to please her. I want Sophie squirming and moaning under my hands, my lips, my tongue. I want Sophie writhing on top of me, I want to fuck her long and slow, to dangle her off the edge of an orgasm for as long as I can, to make her come so hard she sees stars.
And I want to get under Sophieâs skin.
Iâm sick of being the one to lose my composure around her, of being a fucking mess while she stands there with her impeccable uniform and her straight posture and her disdainful eyes. I want to be the one to make a mess of her for once. I want to crumble her like a sheet of paper, scribble myself all over her.
So on Tuesday, even though I completely expected her to be a no-show, I still canât help peering out of the windows and pacing around, waiting for something thatâs not going to happen. I clench and unclench my fists and grit my teeth so hard I give myself a headache.
I made a deal with myself to not text her, and I havenât. Part of me doesnât want to give her the satisfaction of ghosting my texts, which is exactly what she would do. Part of me wants Sophie to be on the other side of the phone, staring at her notifications, wondering why Iâve not texted her.
I want Sophie to be as restless as I am, I want her to sit and suffer like me.
But deep down, I know how unlikely that is. Sophie hasnât been shy about telling me she likes somebody else. If itâs true, then what can I do with that? This isnât a romantic film, itâs not like Iâm going to chase Sophie to some airport and make her pick me over someone she actually likes.
If sheâs telling the truth, then whoever Sophie likes is probably everything she wants in a guy. Whereas I symbolise everything she hates. So of course Sophie is never going to choose me.
If I was smart, Iâd do exactly what she said and stay away from her.
Except.
Except except except.
The logical side of my brain and the hungry side crash into each other in deafening clangs of chaotic thoughts. Every thought rings with the word âexceptâ.
Sophie didnât want to kiss me, sheâs the one who drunkenly pulled me to her at that party and kissed me first.
Sophie fancies somebody else, she kissed me on Christmas eve and let me go down on her and came so hard her thighs were still shaking even while she was rejecting me.
Sophie hates me, sheâs the one who initiated sex yesterday and let me fuck her against a discarded table in the assembly hall cupboard.
I should give up on Sophie, I just fucking canât bring myself to.
Because wanting Sophie is worse than thirst or hunger or desire. Itâs a deep, devouring need, undeniable and all-consuming. Every night when I crawl into my bed and close my eyes, the darkness behind my eyelids fills up with images of her, of her hair in that strict centre parting, of her dark brown eyes, of her mouth opening against mine, of her raspy voice coming out in short gasps.
Thinking about Sophie used to feel good, but now itâs galvanising. I donât even try to rein in my fantasies anymore. I put her in scenarios in my head that make me so hard I have no choice but to touch myself. But letting my head constantly fill with these images doesnât help, it only makes me crave her more.
And thatâs how I end up like this: my phone turned off so Iâm not tempted to text her, pacing up and down my house still hoping she turns up. Of course, she doesnât turn up, and of course, it hurts like hell.
I wait a whole hour before I finally accept that sheâs not coming, but I still feel restless. The house both feels too big and too small, so I pull on a sweatshirt, swap my jeans for running leggings and shorts, and get out of the house.
Outside, itâs not snowing anymore, and the cold winter sun has already melted the remains of yesterdayâs snowfall. The air is cool and crisp in my lungs. The pavement is wet, but no longer slippery, so I set off on a run.
Normally, I run around the residential streets and towards Atwood Heather Botanical Garden. Itâs quiet there this time of year, the perfect place to get away from everything.
But today, my feet take me in another direction, and I donât question it until I realise Iâm jogging up Fernwell high street. Itâs a Tuesday afternoon so itâs fairly quiet, and most of the shops still have their decorations up, the dark street bright with twinkling lights.
I know Iâm making a huge mistake by being here, so I enter into a bargain with myself. Iâm just going to jog past Sophieâs café, thatâs it. I might glance inside. Just to see her, to see if sheâs okay. Not even just to see if sheâs okay. Iâm allowing myself to just at herânothing else, nothing more.
A starving man should be allowed to at a slice of cake even if heâs not allowed to touch it.
Nothing wrong with that.
Once Iâve rationalised my actions, I jog up the street. Even though my pace is fairly slow and my cardiovascular health is pretty good, my heart is beating like crazy. I draw closer to the green and gold facade of The Little Garden, a sense of impending doom crashing down on me.
What if she sees me? What if she thinks Iâm stalking her? What if she hates me even more than she already does?
Well. Itâs too late. Iâm running past the shop front.
Iâm slowing down.
Iâm stopping.
And the impending doom actualises into brutal, painful reality.
Yes, Sophie is there. She has her hair tied back into a low bun, and sheâs wearing an apron over her black turtleneck top. She looks good enough to eat, good enough to love, good enough to fucking worship.
The café is empty, and sheâs sitting up on the countertop next to a girl with purple hair. Sheâs talking and laughing, transformed by her smile.
In front of her is a guy in a big sweater. He has a mop of dark hair and I canât see his face because his back is to the window. But heâs holding up a cupcake in front of Sophie, and she leans down to smell it, and he bops the top of the cupcake to the tip of her nose and she pulls back in surprise and bursts out laughing.
Her cheeks are flushed as the guy hands her the cupcake and she takes it, and when he walks away from her, her eyes follow him to the doorway through which he disappears. Her smile dims slightly after he walks awayâbecause he was the one making her laugh.
Something black and monstrous rises inside me, something which scrapes and claws its way up my gut, through my throat, inside my mind.
I spring away like Iâve been electrocuted. I sprint all the way back to my house, my steady, calming jog forgotten.
My lungs burn and my heart pounds. Iâm sick to my stomach, acid burning inside me. I concentrate on the way my body feels, trying desperately to keep my mind empty, my thoughts safe.
When I get to the house, my hands are so cold I can barely grip my key, and my fingers shake as I try to get the key into the lock.
In a burst of frustration, I throw the key at the floor and slam both my fists against the door with a yell. The hoarse sound echoes through the courtyard and fades amongst the pine trees. Then itâs quiet again, and all I can hear are my panting breaths and the deafening pounding of my heartbeat drumming in my ears.
I sink down, sitting with my elbows resting on my knees, my head dangling down. My vision is obscured by my sweat-drenched hair, but thatâs fine. The porchlight turns itself off, plunging everything into darkness anyway.
âFuck.â
My voice is hoarse and pathetic in the darkness. The anger has seeped out of me, leaving me breathless, exhausted, completely empty.
Sophie didnât lie. She like someone else. And in a way, Iâd already guessed this was the reason Sophie of all people would flaunt a school rule. This isnât just any job. This is a job . I couldnât really make him out through the window, but I know I also correctly guessed she liked an older guy.
This one seemed in his twenties, with a similar carelessly elegant style to Sophie. Exactly the type I knew she would go for.
The exact opposite of me.
It hurts like Iâve been physically stabbed in the heart. I grip my chest with a groan. What a fucking idiot Iâve been. Iâve been so busy treating her like shit to make sure nobody at Spearcrest would covet her that I pushed her right into the arms of some random nobody out in the real world.
Iâve truly cut my nose to spite my face, and now Iâve got nothing left to do but cry into my own blood.
No.
Since when have I become the kind of guy to think like that? Iâve never backed down from a fight before. Iâve never accepted defeat just because it hurts. Iâm Evan fucking Knight, and if thereâs one thing the Knights arenât, itâs a bunch of quitters.
So Sophie likes this other guy. So fucking what? Sophie hasnât liked me ever since I turned my back on our friendship, but Iâve never let that get in my way before. She might like this random nobody, but âm the one who gets under her skin.
She can hate me all she likes, but she canât deny how good my kisses made her feel, or how hard I made her come.
So fuck it. If she wants this other guy, she can work for it. Iâm not going to lie down and let her walk right over me on her way to this guyâs arms. Sheâs going to have to go through to get to , and if she wants to do that then sheâs going to have to get her hands dirty and actually fight me.
And Iâm ready to fight as dirty as I need to.