Things I Wanted To Say: Chapter 9

SOMEHOW, I get him into my room, though it’s not easy. We had to pause a lot. He coughed once, and I thought he might pass out, but maybe that’s me being overly worried. I had to shove him against the wall and hold him there, praying he wouldn’t lose consciousness. He’s too heavy. There’s no way I could’ve lifted him.

When I finally get him into my room, I guide him toward the chair at my desk, helping him sit. I realize quickly that he’s shivering from the cold and his wet clothes.

I’m shivering too.

“I’ll be right back.” I hold my index finger in front of his face, trying to sound like I mean business. “Don’t move.”

“I couldn’t if I tried,” he croaks, trying to crack a smile and failing miserably.

I leave him in my room and go to the communal bathroom, where I grab a couple of towels and a washcloth. I go to the sink and turn on the water, running it until it’s scalding, then saturate the washcloth with it, wringing it out quickly before I shut the water off. I scurry back down the hall, knowing we don’t have a lot of time until the game is finished and everyone comes back to the dorms.

I need to get his clothes, and mine, into a dryer. I can’t have anyone notice that I have boy’s clothes either, so I need to mix them in with other stuff. It won’t look unusual that I’m doing my laundry on a Friday night. No one likes me at this school. I have no friends.

What else am I supposed to do?

I enter my room to find he’s still sitting in the chair, his pants puddled around his feet. He glances up at me with a grimace. “Get this shit off of me,” he groans.

Irritation filling me, I go to him and kneel on the floor in front of him, pulling off his shoes first, then peeling off his socks. I go to grab his trousers and I realize his boxer briefs are there too.

Slowly I look up at him to find he’s smirking at me. Despite everything. The pain and the wet clothes and the crazy situation we’re currently in, he’s got an arrogant look on his face and I know exactly why.

“Didn’t imagine you kneeling before me for the first time like this, but it’ll do,” he drawls.

“You’re such an ass.” I tug his pants and boxers off his feet, letting them land on the floor with a wet plop. “Take off your shirt.”

He cocks a brow.

“Take. Off. Your. Shirt,” I repeat, a little slower this time.

“You want me naked? Don’t know how well I’ll be able to perform—”

I cut him off. “I want to throw your clothes in the dryer.”

“Oh.” He sounds disappointed. “Rich girl like you knows how to do laundry?”

“I do. Don’t sound so surprised,” I say with a huff, my eyes going wide when those long, elegant fingers reach for the front of his shirt and slowly start undoing each button.

“You going to watch?” he asks, his voice bored as he undoes the last button. The shirt hangs open and my gaze drops, but there are shadows in the room, thanks to the single lit lamp on my bedside table. I can’t see anything. And I’m curious.

I want to see everything.

“I suppose,” I say with indifference, like his near nakedness in my room doesn’t affect me.

“I’ll show you mine if you show me yours.” He tips his head in my direction. “You’re wet too.”

My clothes are so soaked, fat water droplets are literally dripping onto the carpet.

Feeling defiant, I tug the hoodie off, dropping it onto the pile of Whit’s clothes. I toe off my shoes, my no-show socks rolling right off with them. Resting my hands on the waistband of my leggings, I slowly work them down my legs, my gaze never leaving Whit’s the entire time.

He doesn’t look away. Just holds my gaze, as if we’re in a competition to see who blinks first. He does, his gaze dropping to my legs for the briefest moment when I finally get the leggings off my body.

It was as if they were stuck to me like glue.

“You’re really going to take off all your clothes. In front of me.” He sounds like he doesn’t believe me.

“I’ve got nothing to hide,” I tell him, enjoying the dare—the way his gaze roams over me, as if he has no idea where to look first. I’m full of surprises, I think. I keep him guessing. He believes I’m some meek, stupid girl who he can push around.

He’s wrong.

I take him in as well. How he’s sitting on my chair completely naked, save for the open shirt, and I realize that’s kind of weird.

This entire situation is weird.

“Neither do I,” he says.

“Shall I go first?” I don’t know where this bravery is coming from, but I’m going with it.

“If you insist.” He smiles. Winces. The shiner he’s sporting is deepening in color, giving him a gruff, rough-around-the-edges appearance.

The prince has been wounded in battle. And I’ll have to pretend like I never witnessed it. As if I have no idea what happened.

It should be easy. Not like we talk in front of other people anyway.

Reaching behind me, I slowly unhook my bra. It springs away from my skin and I let the straps fall down my arms, then toss it into the clothes’ pile.

“Just as pretty as I imagined,” he murmurs, his gaze only for my chest.

Perv.

I am not ashamed of my body. It’s been used, and I’ve used it. Right now, it’s a weapon of mass destruction, and Whit is my target. I’m fully prepared to decimate him.

Though I suppose I have the advantage, considering he’s injured and hiding away in my room. But still. When in war, you must take your opportunities where you can.

Resting my hands on my hips, I curl my fingers around the waistband of my panties. My heart slows, then kicks back into gear with a steady, heavy beat. His gaze is warm. Assessing. He leans back a little in the chair, and I know he should look ridiculous, practically naked with a drenched white shirt on and nothing else.

But he doesn’t look ridiculous. Not one bit. I’m the one who’s supposed to be in control right now, but he’s the assured one, waiting for me to make the next move.

“You going to drop them?”

“You want to see?” I throw back at him.

“You fucking know it,” he says with a grin.

Pissed, I push my wet panties down, irritated that they get stuck around my knees. I struggle with them, finally kicking them off before I just stand there and let him look his fill.

And he does. He blatantly stares at the spot between my legs, his brows lifting slightly. “You don’t wax.”

Why would I want to make my pussy pretty when no one was really seeing it? Well, the only person who was, I didn’t want him to touch me. At one point, I wanted to make myself as repulsive to him as possible.

It didn’t work. He didn’t care. He still took what he wanted.

“I trim it,” I say, which is the truth. “Groom it a little.”

“I like it.” His smoldering gaze meets mine. “Your confidence is a surprise, Savage. I like that too.”

I shouldn’t take pleasure from his compliments, but I do. And it’s so cold in here, my nipples are hard, aching points. I rub my arm against them, trying to ease the pain, but it’s no use. “Your turn,” I tell him.

“I don’t know if I can stand.”

“Is that a cop-out I hear?”

With a grunt, he grabs the back of the chair and rises to his feet on unsteady legs. I’m tempted to help him, but he glares when I take a step forward, so I don’t move any further. He shrugs out of the shirt, first one shoulder and arm, then the other. Very, very slowly.

Until he’s just as naked as I am.

His shoulders and chest are broad. His abs…he has a six-pack. Flat stomach. His belly button is an innie. Hairy thighs. Long, thick cock that is semi-hard. And once my gaze latches onto it, it grows even harder.

“Impressed?” he asks, sounding annoyed.

“It would do,” I say with a shrug and a yawn.

He laughs. Groans. Clutches himself, falling back into the chair with a heavy thud.

“Looks like nothing’s going to happen tonight,” I say with glee as I whip around and go to my closet, slipping on a fresh hoodie and grabbing a pair of sweat pants to pull on. I slip my feet into slippers and turn once more to face him. He’s eyeing my fresh, warm clothing with obvious envy and I gesture toward my bed. “You should rest.”

“In your bed?”

“No, in the chair.” I roll my eyes. “Of course, in my bed. Oh! I almost forgot.” I go to my dresser and grab one of the towels I brought with me, along with the now cool washcloth. “Do you need help?” I ask as he stands and starts to make the few short steps to my bed.

“I’m fine,” he bites out, shuffling like an old man. My gaze drops to his ass, noting the shallow dimples at the base of his spine. I imagine kissing them. Biting the firm flesh of one butt cheek, then the other.

My cheeks flush, and I go to him, tugging the comforter and sheets back before he collapses on top of the mattress. I pull the sheet and comforter over his naked, damp body, tucking it around him. I offer him a towel and he frowns. “Dry your hair?”

He dismisses my offer with a single shake of his head. “No.”

“Let me wash your face at least?” His frown deepens. “So I can clean up your wounds.”

“Go put my clothes in a dryer first,” he tells me, his voice weakening. His eyelids are heavy, as if he’s suddenly been hit with a wave of exhaustion. “Before everyone comes back here.”

His point is valid, so I do as he says, going to the communal laundry room and dumping our clothes into a dryer before I start it up. Forty minutes should be plenty of time to get everything relatively dry. Then we’ll wait for lights out and I’ll sneak him out of here. The advisor eventually goes to sleep, so no one will be at the desk by the time he leaves.

Though there are cameras. Someone could see us. How heavily are they monitored? Maybe Sylvie can help us with her hacking skills.

Maybe Whit won’t want his sister’s help. He might not want her to know what’s going on between us.

And what exactly is going on between us anyway? I don’t have a clue.

I rinse the washcloth with hot water once more and return to my room, going straight to him. He’s lying there, his phone clutched in his hands, his fingers typing on the screen furiously. He glances up when I’m standing right beside the bed, a familiar scowl on his face that’s oddly comforting.

I’m more used to him being cruel to me than anything else, and that is all kinds of fucked up.

“I have a warm washcloth to wash your face.” I hold it up.

“I can do it,” he says, dropping his phone beside him on the bed before he sits up to reach for it. The movement makes him wince, and I hold the washcloth out of his reach.

“Nope, let me play nurse for a minute.”

“Only if I get to play doctor with you later,” he mutters.

Ignoring his statement, I settle in next to him and he scoots over, giving me more room. I study his face. The deep scrape on his cheekbone. The reddish-purple bruises forming around his eye. The skin is swelling, causing his eye to become smaller, and I wish I had ice to put on it. It’ll be swollen shut by morning. I’ll start out easy, and move on to the bigger damage next.

“You’re in bad shape,” I murmur as I touch the washcloth to the cut at the corner of his lip.

“You should see the other guy,” he says.

“I did. I saw both of them.” I gently wipe at the scrape on his cheek. It’s deep, and he bares his teeth at me as I clean it. “Why were you out there anyway?”

“It doesn’t matter.”

Irritation fills me. “I’m not going to tell anyone what happened.”

“I can’t trust you, Savage. I’m not telling you shit,” he says irritably. “Just know—I’ll take care of the problem.”

“How?”

“Don’t worry about it,” he mutters.

Anger makes me swipe at the fragile skin beneath his eye a little too hard and he hisses in pain. “I don’t want you to be my white knight.”

He laughs. “Trust me. I didn’t want to rescue your skinny ass tonight either.”

I push away from him. “Then find someone else to nurse your wounds.”

“I could get a hundred other bitches to do the exact same thing you’re doing, right now. All it would take is this.” He snaps his fingers.

The arrogant asshole.

I glance around the room, pretending to be in search of someone. “I don’t see anyone running to do it.”

He silently glares.

I quietly gloat.

“Elliot is an asshole,” he says after a few moments as I clean up the dried blood still on his face. I wonder if someone was wearing a ring when they hit him. There are tiny cuts among the massive bruises. “I had a feeling he was going to do something to you.”

I’m mystified by his statement. “What do you mean, you thought he was going to do something to me?”

“You made him look like a weak pussy earlier, in front of the library. He didn’t like that.” He smiles, his eyes sliding closed. “Stupid ass bested by a weak little girl. He’s done for. Seriously, no one fucking fights me on this campus and gets away with it.”

My hand stills, the washcloth still pressed beneath the eye. “What do you mean by ‘he’s done for’?”

His eyes slide open, brilliantly blue and glittering. “Elliot. He’s finished.”

“But I thought you two were friends,” I say, confused.

“You kicked him in the nuts and took him down. And he retaliates by trying to attack you. And look at you. Are you worth ruining his reputation completely?” He waves a hand at me before it drops limply on the bed.

I pull the washcloth away from his face and sit up straight, insulted. “You’re such an asshole. I’m risking everything, sneaking you into my room and trying to help you, and this is how you repay me?”

“What did I do? All I said is look at you.” His eyes slide closed, his lips purse, the ugly jagged cut in the corner red with inflammation. If he’s not careful, it’ll scar. “You’re just a girl. A weak, whorish little girl who took him down with one knee as if he was powerless. That’s why he was so mad. I don’t blame him. You’re nothing, yet you strut around campus like you own the place, and it’s not yours to own, Savage. This is my campus. You should cower in fear every time I so much as look at you.”

“You’re a pig,” I tell him, giving him a hard shove as I rise to my feet. He grimaces in pain, rolling over on his side so his back is to me, and I don’t even care. I hope he hurts for all eternity. I hope a rib punctures his lung and they both fill with fluid. He’d die from that.

I wouldn’t feel a single inch of remorse if he did. Not at all.

He deserves it. For how he talks to me. Treats me. The things he says about me. The things he gets people to do to me. I don’t care if he helped me earlier. He only did it for selfish reasons. It had nothing to do with me.

Why should I help him? He’s disgusting. The worst person I’ve ever met.

“The second your clothes are out of the dryer, I’m kicking you out of my room,” I tell him.

“Someone will see me when I leave,” he says to the wall, sounding annoyed.

“I don’t care. You can be the one to explain why you’re in the girls’ dormitory this time of night. And you better not drag my name into it.”

“Or what?” He glances at me from over his shoulder. “Are you threatening me, Savage?”

There’s no point in denying it. “Yes. I am.” I go to the bed and lean over hm, thrusting my face in his, our mouths so close I can feel his breath. So close, I could kiss him. I’m halfway tempted to. “I am threatening you. If you say I snuck you into my room, I’ll tell them that you forced yourself on me. You held me down and made me swallow that giant dick of yours between my lips and suck you off.”

His eyes narrow, but he doesn’t say a word.

“You won’t get in trouble, considering your goddamned name is all over this school and you’re fucking untouchable, but at least I won’t get in trouble either. I have no qualms in screaming sexual assault to anyone in regards to you, so don’t tempt me,” I tell him, giving his shoulder a shove before I stand tall once more.

His gaze tracks my every movement as I make my way toward the door, the washcloth and towels in my arms. “I think you’d get off on that,” he says quietly. “Me holding you down, my giant dick between your lips. You sucking me off. I bet you’d drink every last drop.”

I don’t acknowledge his words. To do so would show that they get a reaction out of me. The image of him holding me down on the bed, feeding his cock between my lips, that arrogant smirk on his face the entire time…

A shudder moves through me at the thought, and I try to banish it, but it’s like I can’t. It’s there, playing like a movie in my mind on a repeat loop. He’d get no greater satisfaction than dominating me, and I’d…

I’d love every second of it.

God, what the hell is wrong with me?

“I’m going to get your clothes,” I tell him, my hand on the doorknob. “Don’t move.”

His soft chuckle follows me as I slip through the door.

I stomp down the hallway and into the laundry room, dumping the dirty towels in a giant bin. The dryer is still spinning and I open it, reaching in to feel his clothes.

They’re still pretty wet. It’s going to take a while still.

Frustrated, I slam the dryer door and hit the button, turning it back on. I watch the clothes spin and spin, chewing on my thumbnail, willing the clothes to dry faster.

I hate him so much. He’s fucking despicable. He has major issues, and clearly hates women. Has zero respect for them, especially me. And he’s surprised I could drop Elliot the idiot with one thrust of my knee? It had been easy. He dropped like a sack of potatoes, straight to the ground.

If Whit hadn’t shown up earlier though, Elliot would’ve got his revenge against me. Dread floods my stomach, making it churn at the thought of what he might’ve done.

Whit rescues me, yet he treats me like garbage. I don’t get it.

Is he a narcissist? Or maybe something else is wrong with him mentally. I wouldn’t doubt his entire family is completely fucked up. Sylvie is kind of weird, though at least she’s kind. My family is fucked up too, though—pretty sure everyone’s is at one point or another.

Voices sound in the hall and I startle, realizing that people are starting to return. I grab the clothes out of the dryer—they’re a little drier but not by much—and clutch them to my chest. No way can I leave them in the dryer for someone else to find.

I pause in the doorway, watching as girls pass by. None of them look in my direction. They’re all so good at following instructions. Whit told them to ignore me and they do.

He’s right. They’re all a bunch of mindless sheep.

Once there’s a lull in foot traffic, I dart out and make my way to my room, pressing flat against the door when a group of senior girls walk past me. Two of them are Caitlyn and Jane.

My so-called new friends from the first day of school.

“Slut,” one of them murmurs beneath her breath just before they all burst into laughter.

I say nothing, my face hot. If they knew who was in my room right now, they’d die of jealousy.

And then have confirmation that I am, indeed, a slut.

At least in their eyes.

Reaching behind me, I slowly turn the doorknob, barely cracking open the door before I slip back inside and turn the lock. The room is dark. Quiet. The lamp is off. The window curtains are pulled back, letting in the bright moonlight and I go to look outside, surprised at the clear skies above us.

The storm has completely moved on. Almost as if it never happened.

I go to the lump beneath the comforter and give his shoulder a rough shake, but he doesn’t respond. He doesn’t even move. I grip his shoulder again.

Nothing.

Rounding the bed, I come at him from the other side, staring at his battered face. The moon gilds his features in a silverly glow, and I realize the asshole is in a deep sleep. In my bed.

Of course, he looks beautiful. Despite the wounds and the black eye, his lips are soft and his eyes are closed and he looks so…young. Like a little boy.

Vulnerable.

I hate him.

I sit on the edge of the bed, a loud sigh escaping me. He doesn’t even flinch. I touch his nose. Tweak it. Poke at his bottom lip.

No response.

My eyelids are heavy and I toss his damp clothes on the floor. I’m so tempted to slip beneath the covers and sleep for a little while. This entire experience with Whit has left me mentally and physically exhausted. What’s the difference if he goes now or stays a little longer? It might be easier if he just sneaks out in the middle of the night, never to be seen or heard from again.

I couldn’t get so lucky.

Giving in, I tug the comforter and sheet back, and slip beneath them. Pull them up to my chin, and lie on my side. It’s a double bed, very narrow, and he’s sleeping on my preferred side.

Figures.

I study him in the moonlight through sleepy eyes, marveling at the realization that I have Whit Lancaster in my bed. Naked. Injured. Asleep. I despise him, yet I’m also glad for this moment. The two of us alone with no one else around to ruin it.

He can ruin it enough on his own.

What would it be like, to have this boy’s heart? I wonder as I slowly drift off to sleep. Impossible, is what I tell myself.

He doesn’t have one.