Girl Lost (23 page)

"Where is your family, Peter?" Aunt J asks, toying with the remains of broccoli salad on her plate.

"I don't have any, ma'am. I'm an orphan."

There is a distinct lack of caring in his tone, and her eyebrows shoot up. "I'm so sorry," she says quickly.

Peter shrugs. "They died a long time ago. It is what it is."

"Have you picked a major?" she tries.

Peter grins and shakes his head. "Not yet. I'm still exploring my options."

"And what options does an orphan have, exactly?" Micah asks, taking a sip of his wine.

"More than you would expect. Or believe, I'd bet. You have a hard time believing what you don't understand."

"Peter," I snap, clenching his hand hard under the table. Peter sighs and leans back, falling quiet. "Sorry," I say quickly.

"You don't have to apologize for me," Peter says. "I'm sorry. I was being inappropriate."

"You don't think we gave Gwen enough benefit of the doubt," Micah says, brushing aside the apology. Peter hesitates then lifts a shoulder in acquiescence.

"You sit here, now, and tell us that. But you have no idea what she was like—raving and insane, convinced there was an island no one had ever heard of. Talking to a boy who none of us could see or hear. She had watched our parents be brutally murdered. Her brain shut down to protect her from that. I don't think it's a good idea for you to tell her that it was real—Gwendolyn has fought hard for the sanity she has, and for you to undermine that because you want to get laid, it's screwed up, man."

I blink at my brother—he's apparently angrier than I realized.

"I would never do anything to hurt Gwen. If she truly doesn't believe the island and what happened there was real, I'll take her word for it. But I don't believe that myself—and I don't think she believes it either. If she did, the idea of being with me wouldn't be such a hang up."

"You know I'm sitting right there, right?" I say, finally, waving. "You could both try talking to me instead of around me."

Peter flashes a smile and sinks back into his chair, tugging me until I'm almost in his lap, my head resting on his shoulder. I should probably tell him to let me go, but I like being here. So I keep my mouth shut and relax in his embrace.

"Where is Belle?" Grayson asks. Peter stiffens.

"Don't," I say sharply. "Leave her out of this ok?"

"No, it's fair. Belle has threatened you—they deserve to know where she is and what she means to me," Peter says quietly. I glance at him, and he smiles at me, a slightly strained smile.

"Belle is in Chicago, with some of my frat brothers, seeing a specialist."

"What's happening to her?" I ask, the question I have avoided until now.

Peter glances at me and shrugs, lightly. "It’s difficult to say, pixie. A lot is up in the air, but the doctors are trying to sort out what's making her so sick. We're hoping to get some answers soon."

The questions lose their intensity after that, although Aunt J watches while she sips her wine, her eyes cool and assessing.

I sit with her as the boys clean up dinner, watching Micah and Peter skirting each other in the large kitchen as Grayson directs them with brief but efficient commands.

"He thinks it was real."

I glance at Aunt J. "I think he entertains that it's possible, where you and Grayson never have."

"And you? Do you still think it was real?"

I shake my head before I can actually assess the question. Shake my head hard. "No. It was a way to cope. Nothing more or less."

I don't tell her that I can smell it, the intoxicatingly wonderful scent of the island wrapping around me, or the taste of salt and sand on my lips, when he kisses me. I don't tell her that every day I spend with him, the more I question my grasp on reality and the less I care about my sanity.

Peter is so bad for me. I know it, and I can't avoid him—like a junkie to a needle, I'm drawn to him.

After what seems like hours, Aunt J and Micah go out to pick our Christmas tree. I wait, sitting patiently next to Peter, curled into his embrace as a football game plays across the TV. I'm sleepy and content, half dozing as Peter talks in a low voice to Grayson. The couch shifts, and I feel a dry kiss on my forehead. Under my ear, Peter's body tightens, and I hear Grayson laugh. "Easy, boy. She's been mine to care for for years. You don't get to waltz in and steal her away all in one night."

"Is that what I'm doing?" Peter asks, his tone surprisingly light.

Grayson's isn't. It's serious, and thoughtful. "Aren't you?"

I listen as he walks away, the door to the penthouse swinging closed softly behind him. Distantly, I hear the elevator ding, and then we're alone.

Just me and this enigmatic boy in the lavish apartment.

"Are you stealing me, Peter?" I murmur.

He laughs. "Would you mind terribly?"

I shake my head and look up at him. I wonder what he sees in my eyes, that makes his widen and his breath to catch. "No, Peter. I don't think I'd mind at all."

He kisses me, and it's different. Not because he's never kissed me before. But because this tastes of desperation and hunger and hope—like whatever has held him back, every time, is gone. His lips crash down on me, hard and hungry, demanding. His weight follows me down, until we're sprawled across the couch, and all I can think is
too much
and also
not enough
and a very distant, "Peter, stop," I gasp.

He jerks back, like I've slapped him, and that curious panic flares in his eyes. "No, not
stop
, stop. Stop as in, not here." I take a deep breath and twist my fingers together, and blurt it out. "Come back to my room."

His eyes widen, briefly. Fear flickers across his face, and then he nods. Once.

It's enough. I stand and take his hand in mine, and tug. It's like leading a child, hesitant and unsure of himself as we walk through the apartment. But in my room, I drop his hand and stare at him, considering. "Are you sure this is what you want?" I ask. What kind of guy doesn't want sex?

"I want you, Gwen. I've always wanted you," he says, his voice breaking. I step into him, and go up on tiptoes, kissing him. Peter makes a low noise as I trace the curve of his lips, the crooked smirk I know so well. His breathing goes rapid and unsteady as I kiss my way down his throat, sucking at the salty skin, licking over his pulse point. It beats wildly under my tongue, and I feel half drunk on just that, the knowledge that I'm driving him crazy.

Despite his hesitation, I'm still getting under his skin.

"We can stop," I whisper, and thumb one of the buttons of his dress shirt open. "Anytime you want, Peter." I follow my fingers with my lips, tracing a wet path of open kisses down his torso, licking over his abs. Bite down on his pant line, and he thrusts, moaning, into me. I tug sharply on his belt. "Off," I snap. Peter's eyes open, and there isn't any fear, any hesitation. All I see is hunger as hot as my own, and I smile, satisfied. I reach for the hem of my t-shirt, pull it over my head, then reach for my jeans. Peter's hands come down on mine, stilling me.

"Let me," he says hoarsely.

I nod, and he unsnaps my button, the sound making something deep and aching in me clench, hungrily. He eases the zipper down, and slides the jeans off my hips. Crouches there, staring at me. I'm absurdly grateful I decided to wear the matching black lace panties and bra, with hot pink accents. "Gwen," he says, and I shudder. He says my name like a prayer, a chant, a whispered plea—like it is everything he's ever wanted and never dared believe he'd get.

He leans into me, kissing me, his tongue running over the black lace, and I groan, my knees threatening to buckle. His hands are cupping my ass, fingers digging in to add just the right amount of pressure, holding me immobile as his teeth come into play, nipping at me through the lace. It's not enough—it's too much and not enough and I can't breathe enough to form a coherent thought and ask for
more
.

Then my panties are gone, ripped from me with a violent jerk, and I sob as his lips cover me, his tongue slipping through my folds, lips closing over my clit and sucking, his fingers on my ass tightening. His voice is hot in my ears, and I can't do anything, can't move, can't ride the tongue that's fucking into me, can't squirm away from the pleasure that's too there, too intense, too much and—

His fingers push into me, and he bites the soft skin of my inner thigh. I scream, my body clenching, the walls of my pussy spasming around his fingers buried deep inside me. I scream as the orgasm rips through me in a wave of pleasure and memories I don't want to fight, as Peter's lips cover me again, coaxing the pleasure higher. Until one orgasm rolls into another, and I can't see through the sensation.

He murmurs something, and I hear the rip of foil.

His weight on me feels right. Like coming home, like something I've missed and been too stupid to remember I've missed. He hesitates, hovering over me, and I roll my hips, reaching between us to stroke him. "We don't have to, Peter. Not if you don't want this."

His face spasms, pleasure and fear, and he groans, thrusting into my touch. "I want you, pixie. I would give all of it up, for you."

I don't understand. I don't know what he means, but then he thrusts into me, and my breath catches. Emotions play across his face, and I roll my hips again, taking him deeper, slowly. He thrusts again, until he's seated deep in my pussy, leaving me so full I can't breathe. His head drops, to rest in the crook of my shoulder, and I pet his back, easing the shivers that are shaking him.

“Fuck, Gwendolyn,” he gasps, and I laugh, high on sheer feminine power. He eases back, and thrusts hard, trying to find his rhythm. There’s a lack of finesse, a hesitant clumsiness that is endearing and sexy as fuck. I twist my hips and Peter surrenders easily, rolling to his back and letting me straddle him.

Sprawled on his back, his red hair laying like silk on my pillow, his eyes half-closed and hungry, his chest sheened with sweat—he looks right, and hot, and my pussy clenches, just staring at him. He groans, his head kicking back, and I lift, riding him slowly, twisting my hips in tiny circles as I fuck him. His fingers are clenching, rhythmic on my hips.

“You’re gorgeous,” he murmurs softly, his voice laced with wonder. Like he didn’t mean to say it. I shudder.

No one has ever looked at me like this. Like I am the whole of the world, everything good and perfect. Like I hung the stars and the moon. Peter doesn’t make love to me, his hands skating over my skin, stroking over my skin. His lips trace over my collar bone, his fingers tug at my nipples, never stopping, never in one place long enough for me to do anything but squirm in anticipation and pleasure.

This isn’t sex. I could never call it anything so simple as a fuck. It’s a homage—he’s pouring everything into this. I don’t know how I know, except the shine of his eyes as he thrusts into me and whispers my name.

The orgasm hits me like a tidal wave, obliterating everything but the pleasure, tossing me in a maelstrom of sensation. I shudder, going still on him, my head falling forward. The scream is building in my throat as the pleasure whips through me, chasing away every logical thought. I bite his shoulder, hard, to muffle the cry against his skin. Peter groans, thrusts into me again and whispers my name as his cock jerks, following me into the endless swirl of pleasure.

We lie there for a long time, our bodies cooling, until I shiver and Peter makes a disgruntled noise, jerking the blanket up over us. He rolls us to the side, curling around me and giving a soft sigh.

“What are we doing?” I whisper.

Peter laughs, brushing my hair back. “What we were always meant to do,” he says simply. “What does that mean?” I ask, leaning back in his arms.

He takes a deep breath, and I see it—the questions and answers to all of his secrets, sitting there waiting to be spilled.

“You know you don’t need to be afraid of me, don’t you?” he asks, brushing my hair back. “I would never do anything to hurt you.”

I nod. If there is anything I’m sure of, it’s that Peter will protect me at all costs.

“When did we know each other? Was it Brecken Ridge?” I ask. His lips twist. “Belle told me. She hates that you followed me, you know.”

“Belle has known me for a long time, as one thing. To see that change—for you—it scares her. It scares a lot of people.”

“Tank?” I ask quietly.

He nods, leaning down and closing his eyes. “All the AGZ brothers are feeling the effects of my choice to come here. To be with you.”

“Then why do it?” I ask. My heart is beating too hard, an impossibly fast rhythm. I stare at him, and he sighs.

“Because I tried to ignore you, and this—what we had. What it could be. You were the only person to ever tell me no, do you realize that?”

His lips tip into a smile, and I feel my heart shift, a piece of it breaking off. I lean into him, resting my head on his shoulder as I let myself drift into sleep.

Peter is gone when I wake up. The bed is cool, and I can still smell him—exotic and wild, with a hint of the wind on the ocean. It hits me, suddenly what we did.

I had sex with Peter.

I wait for the crushing sensation of
wrong
and guilt, but it doesn’t come—I float on the endorphins and high of being with him.

Which is different from any guy I’ve ever been with, and a little concerning.

I shove the concern aside and roll over, curling into my pillow and inhaling the scent of Peter.

Something crinkles under his pillow. I grin, pulling out a note.

It’s short—fourteen words in scratchy, messy handwriting.

Fourteen words.

The island is real. I can prove it. And I need you to believe.

The world spins, dizzy circles that send my stomach weaving, dipping dangerously. And I stare at the note until the words blend together and my eyes close, and I see them, burned on my eyelids, a line in the sand I had hoped he wouldn’t cross. And now he has.

“Gwen?” Micah says. I make a soft noise, and my brother steps into my room, padding across the thick carpet to sit on the edge of my bed. “Where is Peter?”