Girl Lost (14 page)

“Where?” I ask, grinning.

“Does it matter?”

I shake my head, a tiny motion, and Peter’s eyes light up, amused as he presses another kiss against my lips. “Come on. We’re going to be late.”

I feel his brothers watching us leave, and the eyes of Lane’s teammates. Orchid. I should go to her—I should try to find Micah. But with Peter’s arm around my waist, I can’t think about anything but the fact that this is where I want to be, where I am happy. And for now, that drives everything else away.

I don’t think it will last. In my world, happiness never does.

Peter knocks on my door at six, and Orchid opens it listlessly. “Gwen,” she says.

I’m already on my feet, tugging on a pair of boots. Peter holds my coat up for me, and I shrug into it—the weather has turned abruptly, winter brought in by the wind off the Atlantic. It’s withered the remaining leaves and driven everyone inside. Northern has shifted from a busy campus with students milling outside to cold and ghostly, bundled bodies hurrying against the wind from one building to the next.

And it will get colder before winter really grasps the campus.

“Get your hat, Gwendy,” he orders, and I pick up the knit cap, tugging it low on my head. He smirks and pushes my hair behind my ears. Orchid makes a noise in her throat, and Peter releases me. His eyes go to her and turn cautious. “Would you like to come with us, Orchid?”

She snorts, her eyebrows twitching. “I’m good. I’ll get the play-by-play when Gwen gets home.” Her gaze wanders to me. “Have fun.”

It’s said with a hint of a warning, and I frown. Nod. She looks back to her Mandarin textbook, dismissing us completely.

Peter glances at me and I shrug. When Orchid does this, it’s no use trying to get her to open up. I step out of the room, and Peter pulls the door shut. “I see what you mean. She’s taking the business with Accrocher hard.”

“I think if I could just get her to talk to him, things would work themselves out.”

“Do you really?” he asks, taking my hand as we go down the stairs.

“Well, it couldn’t be worse than it is right now, right?” I reason. Peter shrugs, and I sigh. “It doesn’t matter. Orchid doesn’t want to have anything to do with him. She won’t even go to the caf if he’s there.”

Peter looks at me, startled. “You’re really upset about this.”

“Well. Yes. Orchid is prickly and moody, but she’s also my roommate, and one of the few friends I have here. I want her to be happy, even if James is what makes her happy.”

He nods. “Okay.”

I blink, “Okay?”

He smirks and then pushes open the door. “Come on.”

“Where?”

“Impatient girl,” he says, a gentle tease. I stick my tongue out at him, and he laughs, pulling me into a sprint.

I shriek, and Peter laughs, a wild free sound. The few students outside are staring at us, but he doesn’t care—and when he doesn’t, I can’t bring myself to.

There’s a flickering light ahead, and I stop suddenly, putting what I’m seeing into an order than makes sense.

Candles in tall glass cylinders. A thick blanket. A basket. A little vase with a small bouquet of drooping flowers. A bottle of wine.

I look at Peter and fight down the memory of another Boy—the last boy to take me on a picnic. When all I can see is Peter’s slanted green eyes, slightly worried and so vulnerable it breaks my heart, then I say, my voice trembling, “You did this?”

He nods. Clears his throat. “Do you like it?”

Tears are clogging my throat, and I can’t speak. So I don’t. I just nod and lean up on my tiptoes to kiss him quickly.

“So, it’s colder than I thought it would be,” he says nervously. “But if you wrap up in this blanket, and I hold you, I think you’ll be warm enough. Unless you want to go inside?”

“No, that’s fine. It’s perfect—all of this is perfect, Peter.”

He smiles, tension draining from his shoulders, and leads me to the picnic. Wraps a heavy blanket around me and then tugs me down, so I’m resting with my back against his front, in the circle of his arms. He starts telling me about the food, his breath whispering against my hair. For a heartbeat, I’m somewhere else, lost in another Boy’s arms, a world away, the air too hot, and I shudder. I don’t want to be there. I don’t want that Boy.

Wrong.

I twist, as much as I can, crane my head to look at Peter. His gaze is startled as it dips down to me. “Kiss me,” I say, my voice hoarse, desperate. His eyes widen, and then I jerk him down, and our lips collide.

Rough, uncoordinated, shock-still. I growl and bite down lightly on his lip, and he shudders, his hands tightening on me. His lips part, and I whimper as his tongue nudges past mine, stroking slow and sure.

He kisses me like he will never get the chance to do so again, like he’s waited an eternity for this opportunity and it doesn’t matter how many times he will be allowed to, it will never be enough. He nips at my lips, and I whimper. His voice is a soft, reverent whisper as he says my name, his voice so soft it could be the wind. His hand shifts, and he hesitates, unsure.

I adore that he is so uncertain, so hesitant to push me. I place my hand over his and add a little pressure. Slip it down, down over my stomach, to the top of my jeans.

“Gwen,” he murmurs, his voice hoarse. “Are you sure?”

I nod, kissing him again, twisting so I can hold his head, my fingers threading into his hair.

He pops the button on my jeans, and his hand eases down, slipping under my panties.

Peter curses, when he brushes over me, a noise that seems tortured, and I can’t think, because it’s not enough, I need him to do something, more than the soft, lighting quick touches. I shudder and arch into his caress, and he closes his eyes, his expression pained. “God, you feel good.”

“Peter,” I whimper as his fingers dip lower, slipping through my folds, teasing through the wet heat. One finger dips into me, and I make a choked noise, my eyes closing. He almost purrs, and his thumb brushes against my clit.

“Yes,” I groan. “Do that.”

I can feel his gaze on me, and I force my eyes open, force myself to stare at him as he watches me. His fingers slide into me, deep, and I hiss a breath, my hips moving restlessly as he strokes me, his touch unpracticed and hesitant.

And hotter because of it.

He thrusts his fingers, hard, into me, his palm grinding against my clit, and I shudder, my thighs clenching around his hand as I jerk, pleasure crashing through me. I make a noise, a low keen, and Peter’s other hand comes up, catching my chin and jerking me into a bruising kiss as the orgasm rolls through me like a wave.

When it finally eases, and I can think, I register three things.

He just gave me an orgasm.

We’re still outside.

His fingers are still inside me.

I groan as he pulls his hand free, and Peter gives me a strained smile. There is a new awkward level of tension, something that I don’t like—I want him warm and comfortable with me, the same way he has been.

“Are you hungry?” he asks, before I can say anything.

I’m not hungry. I’m a mess of feeling, a tangle of emotion, a knot of confusion, and I can still feel the phantom pressure of his hand, the flare of emotion in his eyes as I shuddered and clutched at his arm.

“Yeah,” I manage. Relief slips through his green gaze, and he reaches for the picnic basket. I shift away from him, wrapping myself in the blanket and shivering from the loss of his warmth as I watch him drag out the food—cold chicken and a thermos, a plastic bowl of fruit and—

“What are you doing?” I whisper. I flush, biting down on my lip. I hadn’t meant to ask that, and I don’t really want to know. I want to hide from his wild gaze as it darts up to find me.

Why did I ask that?

“Feeding you.”

“You’re going to ignore what just happened?” I ask, my tone dipping toward incredulous. Peter flinches, and I pause. He looks almost frightened, and it occurs to me, for the first time.

I am not the only damaged one.

I open my mouth, not sure what I intend to say, and the sky opens. In the space between one moment and the next, I am drenched, covered in an icy downpour. The candles, his lovely picnic, the blanket—all of it are soaked in mere heartbeats, and the wind is screaming, a savage song that is somehow triumphant. I shriek. I think I shriek. Peter’s eyes widen, and he curses, the sound lost to the rain, and snatches me from the puddle I’m sitting in.

We abandon the picnic, his hand slippery as it wraps around mine, tugging me behind him as we race through the campus, past the quieted dorms and the busy student halls, through the constant rain and wind, until we stand before the massive house. Through the sheets of rain, I see the letters, the AGZ, and I realize abruptly he’s brought me to his home.

A place I’m not sure I want to be.

He hesitates, one hand on the door, and looks at me. “Will you let me explain?”

What? What does he mean—the fascination he has with me, or the orgasm he coaxed from me, or the fact that he acts so damn skittish when we touch? Or the eerie resemblance to a Boy I can’t bring myself to forget.

“Please, Gwendy,” he pleads.

And because I can’t refuse that tone, I step inside.

AGZ brothers are scattered throughout the house as we walk through, and Tank calls Peter’s name as he hits the stairs, his voice urgent. Peter ignores him, ignores all of them. Tugging me upstairs like his life depends on it. Tank shouts at him again, the words muffled and twisting, like he is speaking a language I can’t quite understand.

Peter whips around and snarls at him, his feet still moving, and Tank stops abruptly. I glance back and see the resigned expression on his face, and then we’re upstairs and Peter is muttering, a quiet stream of noise, and I’m shivering.

“Peter,” I say, and he flashes a look at me, over his shoulder, as he pushes open the door.

Which is how I see her first.

“Hello, Thief,” the girl purrs from his bed.

I can’t process it all. My mind won’t actually put it all together. I have to break it into pieces.

Peter’s bed. A girl. Short white-blonde hair. Angry blue eyes. Clothes on the ground. Peter’s bed.

Thief. She calls him Thief. She knows him well enough to have a pet name for him.

Peter is staring at her like he’s seen a ghost, a shadow of something traumatic. He drops my hand, and I shudder, chills wrapping around me at the loss of contact.

“Belle?” He sounds confused, like something doesn’t add up correctly. Maybe it’s that a gorgeous, tiny blonde is sitting on his bed, like she belongs there, her gaze sweeping me critically.

“Is this her?” she asks, standing.

Oh. She
is
tiny. She can’t be more than five feet, if that. Her white-blonde hair is short, framing her narrow, sharp features.

She’s utterly gorgeous, and she’s watching me with curious eyes.

“Who are you?” I ask, my voice very tight.

She tsks in the back of her throat. “Thief, what did you do? The poor thing is soaked.”

“Picnic.”

She jerks, looking at him sharply. Peter shrugs. I stomp my foot. Actually stomp my fucking foot, yanking their attention back to me.

“Who
are
you?” I demand, again, my voice edging toward hysterical.

“I’m Belladonna Evans,” she says, as if I should know this, “Peter’s best friend.”

His best friend? Panic is coursing through me, too strong, and I need to get away. I’m shaking, my teeth knocking together painfully, and that smile she gives me—it’s too sharp, too knowing, a little bit too fierce for comfort. I shudder. “And you, Gwendolyn Barrie, are out of your league.”

I leave after that. I’m shaking, from the cold and the shock, and how the hell was it only an hour or so ago that Peter had drawn me to orgasm so fucking effortlessly?

I want to go back to my room, but I don’t want to deal with an interrogation. If she hears about what happened with Peter, she will be outraged. She wants a reason to be angry—and given everything that has happened with James, I can’t even fault her for that. I would be furious, if it were me.

Micah is still not speaking to me. It’s the longest we’ve ever gone, radio silence across the board. I’m not actually sure what to do with his distance. Part of me wants to go to him and demand to know how to fix this—all of the relationships that I have that are floundering.

I don’t. Instead, I walk to the boat house.

It’s deserted this late at night, the sound of the waves lapping at the side of the building, the sting of salt water filling my sense, mixing with the scent of wood and oil.

I step into one of the rowing machines, one that sits in the water without going anywhere, and I ease my breathing, making it settle so that it matches the soft shift of the water around me. I don’t want to work out—I don’t want that kind of exhaustion.

What I want, more than anything, is to just float on nothing and enjoy the bliss of it.

“But I don’t understand why,” I say, and my voice is petulant. The Boy shifts on his side of me, and I feel the feral smile from the boys at his back.