He slowly lowers his lips to my neck without letting any part of his upper body touch mine. I feel the fire on my neck, but all I can think about is what is touching. His hips have mine pinned to the bed. His legs are between mine.
He runs his tongue slowly from my neck, down my chest, and straight down to . . .
"Boots," he whispers with grin. "I think you dozed off."
"Oh, I'm sorry," I say breathlessly, as I try to push the feel of Aiden's tongue and hips out of my mind.
I listen as Brad goes over more details.
Aiden leans toward me. “Will you save me a dance at the after-party?"
“I don't know," I tease. "Can you dance?”
He puts his head down. Like he can’t.
And I feel bad. Embarrassed for him. “Oh my gosh. Is that why you only wanted to dance to slow songs? Is that all you know how to do?”
He can’t be a god. I’m certain of it now.
Happy Homecoming to him and whoever he asked to go with him.
Although, I’m a bit surprised I haven’t heard about it. Or seen the stars glowing from the ceiling on someone’s Facebook page.
“I’ll get my French homework done before tutoring. You can teach me to dance instead.”
“I don’t really feel like dancing, Aiden. The knee and all."
“I’ve gone above and beyond the call of duty in Social Committee. It’s not something I really had the time to do, but I did it for you. So you owe me.”
I stop for a latte on the way to history and as I'm walking up the stairs, I decide that I'm very concerned that my subconscious believes that acting out a dream in real life is not cheating.
But then I think about it. If you were pretending to be dreaming or were possibly in a heightened state of consciousness, would it be cheating? Like, technically?
That sounds like a question for Brooklyn. If I were ever to speak to him again.
Surely, if this were the case, someone would have figured out that loophole before me. So, probably not.
Then I have an odd sense of déjà vu. I think I said those exact words to Aiden in the dream, and he said, No, you think outside the box. You color outside the lines. For you, it's not cheating.
I wonder if Aphrodite was good in bed.
I mean, we know she was clearly capable of seduction but, technically, once they were seduced, was she?
I have the sudden need to find out.
Passion, nakedness, and sex.
History
Riley and I are working on another stupid history project.
Our project is: How did transportation affect the Industrial Revolution?
Uh, hello. Who thinks up this stuff?
The answer is pretty simple: The use of widespread transportation allowed the Industrial Revolution.
Project done.
But, no.
We have to waste our time cutting out little pictures of trains, highways, cars, and boats to glue on a poster. I'm supposed to be looking on my phone for some statistics.
But instead, I just googled: Was Aphrodite a good lover?
Just as I hit the enter key, Riley grabs my phone looking for statistics. He sees my search and says, “What the hell?”
I bury my face in my palm. “Shut up.”
“Didn't you just have an amazing weekend with my brother?"
“Yeah, so?”
“You’re still obsessing over the god.”
“No, I’m not. I’ve just developed a scholarly interest in Greek mythology.”
“Bullshit.”
I roll my eyes and pretend to put my phone away but, later, when he goes to refill his water bottle, I peek at it.
Aphrodite represents the power of love. The kind of love from which you cannot escape.
No wonder she had so many guys captivated.
She rules all aspects of love, desire, beauty, and sex.
And, oh my.
She is considered the mistress of pleasure. She symbolizes passion, nakedness, and sex.
Oh, wait. There’s more.
Once Aphrodite enters into a relationship, her powers go beyond love and sex to include deep friendship and the connection of souls.
Oh. My. Gosh! That's why I thought he spoke to my soul. It is just a stupid godly love trick. He can do it to anyone he smiles at!
And now, thanks to my research, I know.
I'm not crazy.
Riley says, "I think I know how I want to ask Ariela to Homecoming."
I light up. I'm so excited for him. "How?!"
"Well, I want to do something at the football game Friday night. While I'm in my uniform and she's in her cute little cheerleading skirt. What should I do?"
"I thought you said you knew?"
"I know where. I just need to figure out how. Something all her friends will see. And I was thinking it'd be cool if whatever I do had, like, something she could keep. A memento.”
"So cupcakes and balloons are out."
"Yeah."
"You could write it on her megaphone."
"Would she see it?"
"Probably not. Plus, she'd probably get in trouble. Um, what else is out there?" I think for another minute. "Oh, I know! You could change the sign the guys run through. I could even help with that."
He shakes his head. "She'd keep ripped paper?"
"This is hard."
"I know. I want it to make her melt. For her to think it's super sweet."
I raise my eyebrows at him in surprise. “Who the hell are you and what have you done with my friend?”
"Shut up and think. What else is on the field?"
"The scoreboard?"
"Only has numbers."
I get an idea. "A football! You could write it on the football and while you're warming up, call her name and toss it to her. And you could both sign it and date it afterwards. That'd be really cute. It'd be cool to have a keepsake. Speaking of that, I'd like a keepsake to remember how Dawson asked me. Can you stand in my room with your shirt off and an M painted on your chest?”
He flicks my nose. "Hey, that was for you. I was embarrassed to be seen shirtless."
I laugh out loud. "Now that is bullshit. You'd walk around shirtless all day if they'd let you."
He smirks at me. "I'd be better off if they'd let me walk around with no pants. Now that is impressive.
Hollywood royalty to trash.
Math
While we're supposed to be doing some math problems towards the end of class, I poke Logan, who sits in front of me.
"Hey, I heard you’re trying out for the play. What part do you want?"
"I'm trying out for the Bad Prince. You know, the guy that screws everything up for the trashy girl you want to play?” He looks down his nose at me, like I'm actual trash, then turns his back on me.
I purse my lips and scratch my temple.
I have to admit, this kind of response from a guy is sort of new to me. At my old school, well, anywhere really, boys who I didn't know seemed thrilled, almost honored when I talked to them.
What happened to me?
Why isn't he flirting with me? Is he like Whitney? Does he think I'm trash too?
I look down and scrutinize myself. Run my hand down a chunk of my hair. It's still blonde and shiny. My clothes are still cute. I check my reflection in my phone. My teeth are still white. My legs still long and tan.
How did coming to a new school cause me to go from Hollywood royalty to trash?
Classy is overrated.
Ceramics
Jake folds his arms across his chest and sits on the stool next to me. "So now I have to figure out a way to ask Whitney to Homecoming that is classy but compares to what Dawson did for you. You're stealing her spotlight, Monroe. She doesn't like it."
"You must be high if you think I'd help plan anything for her."
He shakes an adorable freckled finger at me. "See, that's where you're wrong. I am asking you to help me. Because I gave you vodka for your knee. Because I came back with Dawson and because I helped him ask you. That's what friends do. They help each other."