Dirty Dreams novel · Chapter 2 of 24

Chapter 2: Out Cold

The boys touch and taste her while she plays dead and comes silently; at dawn she finds a folded note on her pillow that says I'M SORRY.

Warm hands settled on my knees and pressed them apart.

The air moved over the wettest part of me, and I almost whimpered.

I bit the inside of my cheek until the urge went away.

"Look at that," Brody breathed. "Dylan, look at her."

"I'm looking," Dylan said. His voice cracked in the middle.

"Touch only," Wyatt said. "That's what you said. We're just touching."

"Then touch," Dylan said.

A fingertip dragged along my slit, slow, from the bottom to the top.

It circled my clit once and left.

I felt my own slickness cool on my skin where it had been.

"She's so wet it's on my hand," Brody said. "I'm going to taste her."

"That's not touching."

"It's touching with my mouth."

"Brody," Wyatt said.

"Let him," Dylan said, after a pause so long I thought he might say no.

Hair brushed the inside of my thigh.

Then a hot, wet tongue slid up the center of me, flat and slow, and I forgot how to breathe quietly.

I let the breath out through my nose in one long, even pull.

Sleeping girls breathe like that, so I did it again.

"Fuck," Brody said, against me. "She tastes incredible."

His tongue went to work.

He licked me in long strokes, then short ones, then a slow circle on my clit that made my toes curl under the sheet.

I let my toes curl.

A person can twitch in her sleep.

"She moved," Wyatt said, quickly.

"She's dreaming," Tate said. His voice was calm. "Keep going."

His hand was back on my ankle.

He held it loosely, with his thumb on the bone, and it was the only thing in the room that felt steady.

Brody hummed into me, and the hum went all the way up my spine.

My thighs wanted to close around his head.

I kept them open with everything I had.

"Look at her stomach," Dylan whispered. "She's shaking."

"Her hips," Wyatt said. He sounded wrecked. "She's lifting her hips."

I was.

I hadn't told them to.

Brody's hands slid under me and held me up to his mouth, and I let him, and I let my head roll to one side.

Someone's thumb pushed into the soft hair at my temple, brushing it back, almost kind.

I think it was Wyatt.

I think he was shaking worse than I was.

"Make her come," Dylan said. "Brody. Make her."

Brody sucked my clit between his lips and flicked it with his tongue, fast and exact, and slid two fingers into me.

I clenched on him.

The orgasm built under my ribs and my tailbone and the backs of my knees, and I knew it would be loud if I let it.

I turned my face into the pillow and let it out as a soft, broken, sleepy sound.

It went on for a long time.

My whole body arched off the mattress and came back down, and the sheet was soaked beneath me.

"Holy shit," Brody said. His voice was thick. "She came all over my face."

Nobody laughed.

"Stop," Wyatt said. "That's enough. Please. That's more than enough."

"Yeah," Dylan said. He was breathing hard. "Yeah. Okay."

They were quiet, and I lay there with my thighs still open and my heart going hard enough that I was sure they could hear it.

Nobody said that I was awake.

"Get her dressed," Tate said. "Before it's light."

Hands took my ankles, one in each, and lifted my feet into the leg holes of my sleep shorts.

They slid the shorts up my legs, careful about the damp, and Wyatt lifted my hips while Brody smoothed the waistband into place.

"Where's her underwear?" Dylan whispered.

"I've got it," Brody said.

"Give it here."

"No."

Nobody had time to argue.

Someone tugged the hem of the shorts straight over my thighs.

Someone pulled the blanket up to my chin and tucked it down on both sides.

"Night, Kenna," Dylan whispered.

The mattress stopped shifting.

I listened to four sets of footsteps go out of my room, and the door swung almost shut.

Next door the bed frame creaked, and I heard Brody say, "Best night of my life," and Wyatt say, "Shut up."

I waited until the house was silent.

Then I put my fingers between my legs again, and came in about a minute.

When I woke up, the sun was in my window.

My shorts were on, my blanket was tucked, and everything looked untouched.

The door stood unlocked.

Except the pillow beside mine.

On it lay a folded square of paper, torn from the notepad on my desk.

I opened it with shaking fingers.

It said, in neat small capitals: I'M SORRY. SLEEP WELL.

I didn't know the handwriting.

Someone had gone back into my room after the others were asleep, just to leave it, and I couldn't tell which of the four it was.

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