Chapter Thirty-One
St. SebastianWith a twist and a shove, I have him angled away from the wall and flat on his back in the grass. Pencils spill everywhere and thunder pounds through the air, and we both ignore it all, our eyes only on each other.
“What are you doing?” he asks again, this time in a voice that’s rough. Almost angry. “We don’t do this. We don’t do it because this is how you wanted it to be. We haven’t been—it’s been for you, St. Sebastian.”
He’s right and I don’t care. I don’t care right now.
I swing my leg back over his hips, bracing my hands on either side of his head. It feels strange to be over him, and wrong too, but it’s the kind of wrong that makes me hard—and it’s that kind of morning, anyway. The kind of morning when anything can happen. So why not this?
