Tia Williams

Good girls were supposed to want a prom kiss from the quarterback, not a face fuck from the hot psycho. But she supposed she wasn’t good, ’cause she was on Shane in seconds, ripping down his soaked jeans and boxers—draining him till he was weak, and she was full.

“Don’t die, baby.”

“Gimme a reason.”

“Me,” he rasped. “Stay for me.”

“Selfish.”

“I am.”

“Stay. I’ll make it worth it. I’ll make it so fucking good, Genevieve. You’ll be so happy, I swear. Just gimme your pain; I’ll take it all. Promise to stay, and I’ll never leave. Me and you, forever. Promise me.”

She heard someone say she’d overdosed.

“Oh, bé. If I can’t make them stay, you can’t. Mercier women are cursed. Cursed.”

But they weren’t who they used to be. They were better

Shane wasn’t a thing to outgrow. He’d always fit. No matter how old or young or sophisticated or raw she was. No matter how much time had passed.

Shane was inevitable.

SHANE: That felt like an ending to you?

EVA: *panicked silence

SHANE: Don’t panic. I’m fucking shook, too. Please, can we meet somewhere?

EVA: Texting is safer.

SHANE: Why, tho?

EVA: Seeing you in person makes me forget the things I should remember.

SHANE: Was that a haiku?

EVA: Shane.

SHANE: I wanna SEE you. You home? I’m coming over.

EVA: You don’t have my address.

SHANE: It’s easy to get. I have Cece’s number, and you know she loves drama.

“You don’t date, Mommy. What even is your type, the Invisible Man?”

Including the fact that Shane was on his way. And now he was here.