Legends of Mirandis Academy

Chapter 6: Wine-Drunk

"You'll do what I want you to, Quincy."

"Whatever you want to believe, Prescott." He smirked in return; she could feel the motion upon her own mouth. "You should just hope you can keep up."

The darkness in the room wasn't shocking, nor was it too hard to adjust to during the brief moments before he shut and locked the door. Her heart was racing, pounding so hard it threatened to rip out of her chest. He all but threw her onto the mattress. It felt like the drop of a roller coaster: a threat and a thrill, out of her control. The alcohol was thick and electric in her system and everything in the world around her felt like heavy gelatin in her hands.

All except for Kelam Quincy. He was vivid.

Brielle had never been touched like this before, not at all, and couldn't say she hated it. It was an emotion she'd never felt before, the sudden craving of contact and warmth. The way Kelam slid his hands across her skin, conveying desire in the very pressure of his touch... the way everything was close and hot and building towards something, something reckless, something exciting.

Of course she knew what the next events would be like. She'd taken notes on sex-ed just like she did with any other school subject, but that left her wondering: Had Kelam done this before? Were they both unfamiliar with the details and just improvising, or was he some sort veteran of sex?

Brielle never watched pornography. She thought it was gross and obscene and avoided the subject entirely, but she was under the impression that a lot of boys her age were regular consumers of the media. Had Kelam ever watched porn? Were the things Kelam was doing to her—doing with her—things he'd learned from an outside source, or was he winging it all on his own?

It didn't matter anymore as a particularly sensational touch sent a noise from her mouth that she'd never heard herself make before.

His hands went idle between her thighs and his face hovered over hers, meeting her eyes. He whispered, surprisingly without aggression, "Shut up—"

"Make me," she whispered in response. He seemed taken aback, but didn't have time to process as she grabbed his neck and dragged his lips onto her own.

"Brielle—" she'd never heard her name said like that before, "we can stop if you want."

"Well, I don't. So keep going," she commanded, and promptly began reaching for his belt. Her brain wasn't even on. Something else was controlling her. The alcohol was eating at her rational mind.

She found she liked hearing him say her name like that, like a sincere thank you to someone who gave an immensely thoughtful gift. And it was with a sparking of anger and fierce longing that she realized that saying his name felt good in her mouth, like singing along to the radio and harmonizing with the artist.

It was impossible to tell whether the alcohol altered time or if it was simply endorphins that made her mind melt and swirl then reform. Impossible to tell how many hours she spent as someone who was not quite Brielle Prescott, or perhaps someone who was more Brielle Prescott than she'd ever been before, half the intellect and twice the thrill. Either way, it was all because of the Quincy boy.

She didn't hate it. She didn't hate it at all. In fact, she quite liked it. If this was what sex was, she kind of understood why people did it so much. She couldn't imagine this was something she would do again, but she kept going, reluctant to allow it to end, to ever leave her grasp. Eventually, there was some blurry point in the night's timeline where they'd stopped, some indefinable moment between midnight and dawn. Though she couldn't exactly recall how or when it was over, it was fun. She liked it. He did, too.

But the fun ended abruptly the moment she woke up nude beside her equally declothed enemy, in his bed, with a condom wrapper in the waste basket beside her.

"You've got to be fucking kidding me," she hoarsely whispered. Her head was pounding. "No no no no no no—"

"Hmm?" Kelam shifted and rolled towards her. His eyes went wide at the sight of her, sheet tucked tight against her bare chest as her only means of cover, and he promptly turned right back over where he'd begun, now with his face in his hands. "What the fuck?" she heard him whisper to himself.

Brielle was dressed and out of the house in a matter of mere minutes. She revved up the engine of her car and tried to keep her eyes dry as she drove as fast as she could to get away from the Quincy manor.

What the hell happened? Was that real?