CHAPTER 12 The First Touch
POV: Aiden Hart
Kieran stood in front of the only exit, hand still on the lock. His dark eyes pinned me in place, and for a second, the whole world shrank to the size of that tiny upstairs bathroom. The beat of the party downstairs, bass, voices, and laughter, felt a million miles away.
"What the hell is this?" I asked, trying to sound more annoyed than I felt.
He didn't answer. He just stared. That unreadable stare of his that made you feel like he already knew what you were going to say, and he was just waiting for you to catch up.
The air thickened.
I shifted my weight. "Seriously, if this is about earlier—"
"Why'd you laugh like that with Trey?"
I blinked. That's what this was about?
"That's what this is?" I huffed out a laugh, even though nothing about this was funny. "Are you fucking serious, right now?."
He took a step closer.
My back dug into the sink counter, a little too hard.
"I don't owe you an explanation," I said, forcing my voice to stay calm. "You don't get to interrogate me about anything."
His silence was louder than shouting.
I tried to move past him, shoulder brushing his chest. He didn't budge.
"Kieran," I warned.
"What was so funny?"
He was closer now. Close enough that I could smell him, alcohol, leather, soap, something sharp underneath it. The bathroom suddenly felt too small, the walls pressing in.
"You need to back off."
But he didn't.
My frustration snapped like a stretched rubber band. "I don't know how you handled your shit in juvie, but out here, you don't get to corner people and play mind games. You want to be the school's new king? Fine. Take the fucking crown. I'm not in the way."
I reached for the door.
But before my fingers even touched the handle, he moved.
Fast.
The next second, my chest hit the door hard, and the air was knocked from my lungs. His body pressed into mine, chest to back, firm, unyielding.
I froze.
"What—" I started, voice cracking, but I couldn't even finish the sentence.
His breath was warm on my neck. One hand flat against the door beside my head. The other hovered, not touching, but close enough that I could feel the heat of it.
"What are you doing?" I asked, low.
"Didn't you want to know how I handled things in juvie?" His voice was dark, almost a whisper. "Let me show you."
My blood ran cold.
I started fidgeting, trying to get him off me, his lips brushed my neck right beneath my ear. Not a kiss. Not quite. But enough to send a shock through me, like touching a live wire.
Then teeth.
A nibble. Just pressure. No pain.
But my body reacted before my brain caught up.
Goosebumps erupted. My knees locked. And God help me, I didn't move.
"Why'd you stop?" he murmured. "It was about to get good."
That's when I felt his arousal, hard and unmistakable, pressing against me through his jeans. My breath caught in my throat.
Panic slammed into me like a wave.
I turned, elbowed him in the stomach hard. He let out a grunt and staggered back just enough for me to rip the door open. I bolted into the hallway, heart racing, skin crawling.
I didn't look back.
Down the stairs. Past the living room. I barely heard Tyler call after me. The front door blurred past me. Cold air slapped my face as I stumbled outside.
Keys. Where were my keys?
My hands shook as I unlocked the car and got in, slamming the door shut behind me. The silence in the car was deafening. I gripped the steering wheel so tight my knuckles turned white.
What the fuck just happened?
I didn't wait for the answer.
The engine roared to life, and I peeled away from the curb, headlights slicing through the night. My pulse hadn't slowed. My chest hurt. My skin felt like it didn't belong to me.
By the time I got home, my hands were still shaking.
The house was lit up like always. Hart Family Estate perfect, polished, a goddamn monument to appearances.
I stepped inside.
"Where the hell have you been?" my dad's voice thundered from the living room.
I stopped mid-step.
He stood, arms crossed, face red with anger. Mom was perched on the edge of the couch, worry written all over her.
I didn't answer.
"I asked you a question," he barked.
And I snapped.
"Why do you care?" I shouted, voice raw. "You only care when I screw up, right? You care what it looks like—not what it is!"
His eyes widened like I'd slapped him.
"Aiden," my mother whispered.
But I was already gone, bounding up the stairs, taking two at a time. My bedroom door slammed behind me. Lock. Twist. Safety.
For a second, I just stood there, breathing like I'd run a marathon.
Then I stripped off my jacket. My shirt. I couldn't stand the feel of my skin. I beelined for the bathroom, yanked on the shower.
The water was scalding. I didn't care.
I scrubbed my neck. Hard. Over and over. Red marks bloomed, angry and raw. I scrubbed until I didn't feel his mouth anymore. Until I could breathe again.
I avoided the mirror.
I didn't want to see myself.
After what felt like hours, I wrapped a towel around my waist and stepped back into my room. My hair dripped onto my chest. The room was dark except for the sliver of streetlight through the curtains.
I lay back on my bed, arms spread.
Stared at the ceiling.
It didn't happen.
He was drunk.
It's not real.
It didn't happen.
I said it in my head, over and over. Like a prayer. Like a spell. Like if I said it enough, it would become true.
Then my phone buzzed.
I almost didn't look.
But I did.
One message. No name. Just words.
Why'd you leave? It was about to get fun.
I dropped the phone like it burned me.