Wealth, status, and beauty define the elite of Kensington Prep. Every one of them possesses the ability to get away with anything and everything they want, unscathed and remain as privileged and superior as ever.
But Amory Scout decides that tim...
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"You lost, fair and square," Orson whispers in the dark of the Presidential Suite of the Wynn.
"Stop gloating," I whinge but I let it end in a playful squeal as he kisses my collarbone and my neck. The light flashes on and reveals the room.
The bottles of champagne at the game and the three lines of coke I've done in the men's bathroom with Orson have me feeling giggly and loose. He's leading me towards the bed. I'm marveling at the suite, which is a decorator's dream: walls covered with pale blue vintage wallpaper and contrasted with vibrant gold accessories- the matching end tables on either side of the California king bed- and lacquered white accents. The color scheme is bold and glamorous—perfect for the types of people who are willing to spend five thousand dollars a night to stay there.
"We don't have to do this though if you don't want to," Orson says solemnly, setting me down on the bed. He tucks in a loose blond curl behind my ear.
"No, a deal is a deal." I begin to unbutton the last few buttons of his shirt and began to trace circles around his navel. "I always hold my end of the bargain."
I kiss him deeply, letting myself enjoy what everyone adores about him. I think part of the allure of Orson Calloway is how heartbreaking he is.
You're always going to have to endure the stares of other girls, the way they flutter their eyelashes at him, flirt, and tease. You're always going to hear other girls talk about his tight physique and his broad shoulders. You're always going to have to compete and deal with all that attention; that itself is heartbreaking because you know you can never really have him.
If I want him to believe in my facade, I know some of the things I fake have to be real. At least in the physical sense of it. So as I dove deeper into Orson's touch, I let my fears and hatred melt away and lose myself in the moment.
-
When I exit out of the lobby of my Upper East Side apartment on Monday morning, Hadley points out a surprise waiting for me. "Orson is here." She elbows me to look across the street. Orson is looking crisp in his Kensington uniform, leaning against his shiny silver McLaren.
"I'm gonna go," I tell her and she nods.
I cross my arms against my Kensington blazer. Orson is holding two Starbucks cups. "Hazelnut latte, almond milk, and no sugar?"
"How did you know?" I ask suspiciously as I sip it.
Orson opens the car door on the passenger side for me. "I ask Carmen." Good. I think.
I narrow my eyes. "I'm only doing this because I hold to my word."
Orson smirks. "Sure." And I slide into the car.
His car seats are black leather and crisp, cold as my skirt hikes up and I feel the on-skin contact. He leans in all of a sudden. I look at him weirdly. "What?"
