(Okay guys I'm back!!! Did you miss me?)
By the time she reached Clinton's door, doubt had crept in. She hovered there, hand raised, unsure whether to knock.
He wouldn't want to see her. That much she knew.
But she knocked anyway, softly at first, then again.
No answer.
Her fingers brushed the surface of the door, lingering.
"Your mom sent me," she said at last. "She asked me to give you these—for the headache. She wants to see you."
Silence.
Then a voice, unexpectedly quiet. "Go away."
She froze, the rejection cutting sharper than expected. But she raised her eyes, and there he was, standing just inside the room he'd just opened, looking at her. She hated the way her breath caught when their eyes met.
"I lied, Clinton," she said quickly, before he could close the door. "I'm not seeing anyone. I don't even know who Daniel is."
His expression shifted, almost imperceptibly. Something softened. He didn't speak, but he didn't turn her away either.
"Put it on the dresser," he said finally, opening the door wider.
She stepped inside.
—-
The room hadn't changed much, though the duvets and curtains were different. She heard the door click shut behind her and turned to see him approaching.
"Did you say you'd been lying?" he asked.
She nodded. "Another girl made your coffee. I was just—"
"Quiet." He stepped closer, his breath brushing her face.
Tasha's pulse raced. She held the tablets in her hand, but the space between them collapsed. The ache in her chest unraveled, replaced by something deeper.
Clinton couldn't remember feeling this way with anyone else. She calmed him. She excited him. She confused him. But she made him feel alive.
She leaned in, and their lips met in a kiss that stole the air from her lungs. Their hearts echoed, bodies magnetized. Clinton's hands slid to her waist, sparking warmth down her spine.
As they stumbled toward the bed, breathless, desperate, everything fell away—doubt, pride, fear.
He kissed her neck and gently parted her legs, his weight resting on his hands as he looked down at her.
Tasha didn't move to stop him.
This time, she was certain there would be no pain.
The softness of the sheets, the way his hazel eyes burned with need, she was ready.
He kissed her again, lips trailing from her mouth to her collarbone, down to her chest, then lower. Her breath hitched. The room blurred around her.
The dress belt she had knotted earlier came undone in his hands. Only five more buttons. Then she would be left in her bra and panties.
His breath was warm on her chest, and her hands fumbled to unhook her bra.
He watched her with a smirk. She hated that he could see how much she wanted him, and how powerless she was to hide it.
The clasp gave way. His gaze lowered.
She wished, just for a moment, that he would make what they had official.
His mouth found her nipple, and she moaned softly, biting her lip as pleasure coursed through her.
Wasn't this forbidden? Sinful? She had grown up with sermons condemning everything about this moment. Yet here she was—wrapped in a boy she could never bring herself to resist.
His fingers slid under the waistband of her panties.
She wanted another kiss. She didn't even have to ask.
Their lips collided again. His taste filled her, lingered in her throat, echoing her desire.
He undressed slowly, pajamas then boxers, the last piece falling away before he returned to her. Their mouths met again, and they sank into each other.
His chest pressed against hers, hands stroking her thighs. She was trembling.
His fingers brushed against her core, and she groaned. He smiled at the sound.
And then, he was inside her.
The air thickened with heat, every nerve in her body alive with sensation.
Just as they reached the peak of their desire—
A knock on the door.
"Clinton," came a familiar voice.
Tasha's eyes flew open. Mrs. Sandra.
Clinton kept kissing her, his lips muffling her gasps. She wasn't sure if he heard his mother. Maybe he didn't care.
This wasn't her fault. The passion had overtaken them both.
He drew her legs closer. Her fingers tangled in his hair. His hands moved over her chest again, kneading gently, teasing her further open.
She wanted to scream. Instead, she bit her lip to keep the sound inside.
"Clinton!" the knock came again.
This time, he stopped.
Tasha held her breath. She watched him rise, tall and beautiful, as he walked toward the bathroom. He didn't speak. Didn't glance back.
She sat up, heart pounding.
Once again, he had left her feeling small.
She touched her chest, found her bra on the side of the bed, and quickly put it on. Her hands trembled as she buttoned up her dress. She had hoped for something, anything. A forehead kiss. An "I love you." A word to hold onto.
Nothing.
Tears stung her eyes. She wiped them away and hit her chest lightly, trying to stop the ache.
Halfway to the door, his voice came.
"Tell my mom I'm not interested."
She froze.
The words crushed her. It would've been better if he had said nothing.
Was she just a body to him?
She opened the door and stepped into the hallway, praying she wouldn't run into anyone.
But luck wasn't on her side.
"What took you so long in Clinton's room?"
Tasha froze.
Mrs. Sandra stood a few feet away, her voice low and suspicious.
Tasha turned slowly, throat dry.
The woman had stepped away to retrieve her credit card before a shopping trip and had come back to find her still emerging from her son's room.
"I asked you a question."
Tasha searched for words, any excuse. But before she could speak, Clinton appeared behind her.
"She was helping me out," he said casually. The scent of his body wash lingered in the air.
Mrs. Sandra turned toward her son. "Helping you with what? I knocked several times—"
"Just schoolwork," he replied smoothly. "She's really good with books."
Tasha looked at him, hearing something else behind the words.