“Right. That. That’s kind of the main one, right? So, that makes me darkly, caustically desperate for you in a way that feeds even more into my self-loathing.”
“Uh-huh,” I say, nodding as I look over at him. “All that tracks.”
We both sit in silence following that, absorbing it. Our shoulders are touching, and I can hear us both breathing in a way that I hate. A way that might drive me crazy.
“So,” he finally says, “are we going to do this?”
I toss back the rest of my drink. “I thought you’d never ask.”
As if on cue, we both go to our knees on the bar, our bodies turning to face one another as we collide. My hands immediately go to the front of his coat, pushing it off as his mouth presses into mine.
I feel my heartbeat all over my body, in my stomach and my fingers and head. It’s like a wake-up call, an espresso, a cold shower to ward off a hangover. It’s like seeing a girl you haven’t seen in months and recognizing her, realizing that’s you.
Henry’s hands creep up my rib cage, his fingers sliding up my skin tantalizingly slowly as he pushes my sweater as far up as he can, his mouth going to my stomach, then my exposed breasts, the heat fire against my cold skin.
I grab the sweater and pull it all the way off, and then his lips trail up to my neck, his teeth against my skin there before he’s back at my mouth, my chest pressed against his sweatshirt.
The first time, it had been like there wasn’t enough time, there would never be enough time, but we’ve both thrown out how we’re supposed to act, and now we’re just letting ourselves have it, two brats who have decided to stop sharing at last.
His hands are back on my midsection, sinking lower until they push down the leggings I was wearing. Awkward, I maneuver back onto my ass on the bar, re-leveraging myself so he can get the leggings the rest of the way off, and he leans down forward over me, his mouth nipping my skin again before he’s on top of me, a hand curling around my neck.
“Henry,” I say between his kisses.
“Mm.”
Before I can answer, his hand slips between my legs, one finger, then another. I gasp out, shivering, taking in short breaths.
“What?” he says again, pushing in farther. He pushes far enough that I let out a gasp before I respond.
I bite into my lip, trying to form words. “Take,” I manage to get out as his fingers move faster, “off your clothes.”
“Oh, fuck. Right.”
He hops off the bar, pulling his sweatshirt and T-shirt off in one go before he even fully hits the ground, unbuttoning his jeans. I push myself up onto my elbows, watching him with a laugh. I love the sight of his chest, the flat plane of his stomach—someone who goes to the gym but isn’t married to it.
I’m sensitive about so many things about myself, but being naked? Being naked is something I’m not worried about.
He kicks off his pants, his hands grabbing on to his boxers before I say, “Wait.”
He stops, his hands not moving from his waistband. I can tell exactly how much he doesn’t want me to finish this thought. “What?”
I feel my eyebrow go up as I say, “You could barely even look at me this afternoon.” He keeps staring at me, waiting for me to make my point. “Do you just want me now because Marcus had me?”
“I had you way before Marcus did,” he answers too quickly and spitefully, like he’s sure it’s true. Like he knows he has me even now.
I laugh. “So, this is just another way to control me?”
“Jac.” He blows out a long breath. “I am not producing you. This is not part of the fucking show.”
“It can’t be real,” I throw back at him. “That would be against the rules.”
He gives me this helpless look. “Do I look like I give a fuck?” He gestures back to himself. “How do you see this ending well for me?”
I push forward, shove myself off the bar and onto the floor, grabbing up my leggings and pulling them back on.
He swallows. “You don’t get it. I don’t do this, Jac. This never would’ve happened if it hadn’t happened before. You saw me outside and then you saw me inside, and that’s the difference between you and every other contestant who’s made fuck-me eyes at me before.”
“So, you would’ve wanted any of them?” I demand. “You would be fucking Kendall right now if she had been the person you ran into at Chalet?”
“That’s not what I said,” he says as I pull my sweater back on. “Just . . . I don’t know how to do this. I’m not even sure I should.”
“Then I’ll make the choice for both of us.” I cross my arms, finally fully dressed, my anger at war with my raging libido, my disappointment that I’d rather not examine too deeply. Two beginnings, two disappointing endings. “I think it’s time for you to take me back to my room,” I say.
He re-dresses in silence.
The 1 Season 32 Contestants—producer notes
Kendall Dyer
30 and sensitive about it. Too hot for her own good but also surprisingly funny. WILL STIR SHIT UP WITH THE SLIGHTEST PROVOCATION.
The desperate one? The narrator?
Rikki Ly
Tragic backstory—older sister’s overdose. Instant tears. Loves drinks and spinning and talking about her fake tits. She is going to annoy the shit out of some people in the house.
The drunk one! (Viewers will be dying to see her on 1TS).
