CHAPTER NINE:SAME ME
His mouth was on mine before I could think.
Hard. Demanding. His hand gripped my hip, pressing me back into the wall, and I grabbed the front of his shirt because I needed something to hold onto. He kissed me like he was angry about it, like he didn't want to want this, and I kissed him back the same way.
His body pressed against mine. Solid. Warm. I could feel every inch of him, the hard muscle of his chest, his thighs pinning me in place. His hand slid from my hip to my waist, fingers digging in, pulling me closer even though there was nowhere left to go.
I couldn't breathe. Didn't want to.
His mouth left mine, trailing down my jaw, my neck. His teeth grazed the spot just below my ear and I gasped, my head falling back against the wall. He did it again, harder this time, and my hands fisted tighter in his shirt.
"Asher," I breathed.
He didn't answer. His hand slid under the hem of my shirt, palm hot against my bare stomach. I felt my muscles clench under his touch, felt my whole body react to the feeling of his skin on mine.
His fingers spread wide across my ribs. Traveling up. Slow. Too slow.
I arched into him without meaning to.
His mouth found mine again, swallowing the sound I made when his hand finally reached my chest. Over my bra first. His palm pressing against me, feeling the shape of me through the thin fabric.
Then his fingers slipped under.
He cupped me bare, his thumb brushing over my nipple, and I broke the kiss to gasp. He watched my face as he did it again, circling, teasing, until the peak hardened under his touch.
"Look at me," he said.
I forced my eyes open. He was right there, his face inches from mine, his gaze dark and heavy.
His other hand moved down. Over my hip. Across the front of my jeans. His fingers found the button and flicked it open like he'd done it a thousand times.
My heart was pounding so hard I could hear it.
"We should stop," I whispered.
His hand paused on my zipper. "Do you want me to stop?"
I should have said yes. Every rational part of my brain was screaming at me to push him away, to end this before it went further.
"No," I said.
The zipper came down.
His hand slid inside my jeans, over my underwear, and even through the fabric I could feel the heat of his palm. His fingers pressed against me, feeling how wet I already was, and he made a low sound in his throat that made my knees weak.
"Fuck," he muttered against my mouth.
His fingers slipped under the fabric. Touched me directly. I grabbed his shoulders, nails digging in, because I needed something to ground me.
He started slow. His fingers sliding through the wetness, finding the spot that made my breath catch, circling it until my hips started moving on their own.
"That's it," he said, his voice rough in my ear.
He pressed harder. Faster. His mouth was on my neck, sucking, biting, and I was trying so hard to stay quiet but sounds kept escaping—little gasps and moans I couldn't control.
One finger slid inside me. Then two. His thumb still working that spot, his fingers curling, finding a place inside me that made my whole body jerk.
"Asher—" I choked out.
"I know."
He worked me harder. His fingers pumping in and out, his thumb pressing down, his mouth hot against my throat. My legs were shaking. I couldn't think. Couldn't do anything but hold onto him and feel.
"Let go," he said. "I want to feel it."
The tension broke.
I came with his name on my lips, biting down on my bottom lip to keep from crying out. My whole body clenched around his fingers, pulsing, and he didn't stop, kept going, drawing it out until I was shaking and oversensitive and pushing weakly at his hand.
He pulled his fingers out slowly. Brought them to his mouth. Licked them clean while I watched, still pinned against the wall, still trying to remember how to breathe.
"Asher!"
The voice came from the living room. Ethan.
Asher stepped back. The cold air hit me like a slap.
He reached down, zipped my jeans, buttoned them. Fixed the hem of my shirt where it had ridden up. His movements were quick, efficient, like he was cleaning up a mess.
"Go upstairs," he said.
His voice was flat. Neutral. Like nothing had happened.
"What?"
"Go upstairs. I'll handle them."
He walked away before I could respond. Back toward the living room. Back to his friends. Leaving me alone in the dark hallway with my back against the wall and my legs barely holding me up.
I went upstairs.
My room was dark and cold. I didn't turn on the light. Just closed the door, walked to the bed, and sat down on the edge.
My body was still humming. Still feeling the ghost of his hands on me, his mouth, his fingers inside me. I could still taste him on my lips.
And then the shame hit.
It crashed over me like a wave, drowning out everything else. What had I just done? Let a boy I barely knew touch me in a hallway while his friends were in the next room. Let him put his hands inside my pants, make me come, and I hadn't even tried to stop him.
Just like before.
The thought made me sick.
I pressed my palms against my eyes, trying to push it down, but it was already there. The memory. The video. The way everyone had looked at me after. The whispers. The judgment. Slut. Easy. Did you hear what she did?
And here I was, doing it again.
Different boy. Different country. Same me.
I thought moving here would change something. Thought I could start over, be someone new, leave that girl behind. But she was still here. Still making the same stupid choices. Still letting boys touch her because she was too weak to say no.
What was wrong with me?
He probably thought I was easy. Probably went back to his friends and laughed about it. The new stepsister who spread her legs the first chance she got. Just like everyone said about me back home.
The texts from yesterday echoed in my head.
Running away doesn't change what you did. Everyone still remembers.
They were right. I couldn't run from this. Couldn't run from myself.
I pulled my knees up to my chest and wrapped my arms around them. Sat there in the dark, alone, hating myself more than I had in months.
I didn't sleep that night.