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“Sasha. Move out of the way.”
“Say please.”
“I’m not saying please!” Her voice cracks. “You can’t keep me here! That’s… That’s kidnapping! That’s actually, legally, kidnapping!”
“Nobody’s keeping you. You’re going to class at ten. Misha’s driving you.”
“I’m calling an Uber.”
“No, you’re not.”
She takes a step forward and shoves my chest with both hands. As hard as she can. I don’t move an inch. She shoves me again. Then she hits me, open-handed, on the chest, once, twice, and her face crumples, mad and scared and confused all at once.
“Move!”
I catch both her wrists in one hand.
She goes stiff. She yanks. She can’t get loose. She tries harder, twisting, pulling, and I just hold her, watching her fight, watching her tits heave under that open shirt, watching her pulse hammer in her throat.
“Let go of me.”
“No.”
“Sasha, I swear to God…”
I turn us around and put her back against the door. Not hard. Just all the way. I pin her wrists above her head against the wood and step in until there’s no space between us, and she can feel exactly how hard I am against her belly.
She stops breathing.
“You’re scared of me,” I say.
“Yes.”
“Good. You should be.”
Her eyes go wide. Her mouth opens. Nothing comes out.
I slide my free hand under her skirt. She clamps her thighs together. I push my knee between them and spread them, and she makes a sound, high and furious, and twists against the door. My hand slides up her bare thigh. No panties. They’re in my pocket.
My fingers find her pussy.
She’s soaked.
Not wet. Soaked. Hot and swollen and dripping, slick all over the insides of her thighs. My fingers slide through her like she’s been waiting for me.
I look at her. She looks anywhere but at me.
“Look at me, Dylan.”
She won’t.
“Your mouth’s telling me to move,” I say, dragging my fingers slowly through her, up to her clit, and back down. “Your pussy’s begging me not to.”
“Stop it.”
“You’re shaking.”
“I’m scared!”
