Chapter 105
by 
Yelawolf
She ...
Is your crush, the perfect girl of your dreams but he is still in your mind
Her breath is warm. Her perfume fills the small space of the car. It should be intoxicating. Instead, all you can smell is the lingering, ghostly scent of Garvin's musk, a phantom cologne that seems to have permanently soaked into your skin. Your boycunt clenches, a dull ache that screams mine.
You pull into her driveway, the engine cutting off with a shudder that mirrors the one in your soul. The house is dark, save for the porch light, a welcoming beacon that feels more like a spotlight, exposing you for the fraud you are.
"Home sweet home," Ashley says, her voice full of a hopeful excitement that feels like a knife twisting in your gut. She undoes her seatbelt and leans across the console, her intention clear. She's going to kiss you. The kind of kiss that's supposed to seal the deal, the beginning of the night you've both been waiting for.
Her face gets closer. You can see the faint freckles on her nose, the earnestness in her eyes. You should meet her halfway. You should want this.
But you don't move.
And in that frozen moment, you feel it—a vibration in your pocket. Your phone. A single, sharp buzz.
A text.
You know who it's from without even looking.
Ashley is inches from your lips, her eyes fluttering closed, her world shrinking down to this one perfect moment. Your world, however, has just been shattered and redefined by five simple words glowing on a screen you can't see but can feel burning through the fabric of your pants.
You belong to me, bitch.
You kiss Ashley back with a desperation that feels like CPR, trying to breathe life into a memory of a life that's already dead. Your lips crash against hers, a clumsy, urgent clash of teeth and tongue. It's not gentle. It's not sweet. It's hungry and panicked, a performance of passion that feels more like a war.
Ashley gasps, surprised by your ferocity, but she melts into it, her hands tangling in your hair, pulling you closer. She mistakes your desperation for desire, your panic for passion. "Harley," she breathes against your mouth, her name a benediction and a curse.
You pull away, gasping for air. "Let's go inside."
You practically drag her from the car and through the front door, not bothering to close it behind you. In the darkness of the entryway, you push her against the wall, your body molding to hers. Your hands are everywhere, roving over the soft fabric of her dress, tracing the curve of her hips, the swell of her breasts. You're trying to feel something for her, anything that can compete with the phantom ache in your ass and the searing text message burning a hole in your pocket.
"Ashley," you groan, burying your face in her neck. You're kissing her skin, but you're tasting the memory of Garvin's. "God, Ashley."
You lead her up the stairs, each step a thunderous beat in your chest. Her bedroom is just as you imagined it: soft, pink, smelling of lavender and innocence. It's a sanctuary that now feels like a cage. The sheets on her bed are pristine, a blank canvas on which you're about to commit a masterpiece of betrayal.
She turns to you, her dress already unzipped, pooling at her feet. She stands before you in simple white lace, a vision of everything you're supposed to want. She reaches for you, her fingers hooking into the belt loops of your pants. "Your turn," she whispers.
But as her hands move toward your waist, your phone buzzes again. A second text. A second command.
Ashley feels it. She stops, her brow furrowing. "Are you going to get that?"
You shake your head, your hands moving to cover hers. "No. It's nothing."
It's everything. And it's tearing you apart.
