SUMMER

Sure, here’s a rewritten version of your passage, keeping the essence of the original:

—

He calls me later that evening, like a monarch summoning his court. As soon as I open my door after leaving the dining hall, a note flutters to the ground, thin and sharply folded. My fingers tremble as I pick it up, already knowing who it’s from.

“Come to my room.”

No pleasantries, no signature. His distinct handwriting reveals the sender. It’s bold of him to venture into the dorm and slip a note under my door. No one knows about us. We’ve been cautious, but maintaining secrecy is becoming increasingly difficult.

I wait until lights out before sneaking out of my room and leaving the building. The air is chilly, carrying the tang of sea salt, and I take a deep breath as I walk to his private suite.

I pause at his door, my hand raised to knock, but before I can, the door swings open. Whit grabs my arm and pulls me inside. I stumble into him, and he holds me close, shutting and locking the door behind me.

“You’re late,” he says, irritated, as he releases me, almost pushing me away.

“I had to wait until lights out,” I reply, rubbing my arm where he touched me. “I don’t have the same privileges as you. I can’t just roam the campus.”

He smirks, and my heart skips a beat before resuming its rhythm. He looks young, almost carefree. I’m not sure why, but he seems on the verge of a smile, like when he laughed earlier.

What’s gotten into him?

“Jealous, Savage?” he taunts.

“And you’re acting like a jerk, Lancaster,” I retort. His expression darkens. “Watch that mouth.”

“Right back at you.” My voice is calm, and I fold my arms to hide my shaking hands.

He sighs and paces the room. I think about our first night together, realizing we’re similar in unsettling ways. When he doesn’t say anything, I ask, “Why did you want to see me?”

He stops and looks at me. “Want to see you? Is that what you think?”

“You didn’t give me a choice.”

“There’s always a choice.” He approaches slowly, stopping in front of me. He’s wearing black sweatpants and a white T-shirt, his hair still damp. He smells fresh, like he just showered. I want to bury my face in his neck but hold back. “You don’t have to come.”

I lift my chin, meeting his gaze. “That’s not true.”

“It is. You want to be here with me.”

I stay silent.

“I was with you earlier. Wasn’t that enough?” he asks, raising an eyebrow.

“You’re the one who insisted I come,” I remind him. “Maybe you should answer that.”

His chest rises and falls, his frustration palpable. What’s bothering him?

What did I do? Our encounter earlier was like the others. I don’t know how much more he expects before he returns my journal.

Maybe it’s not about the journal. Maybe it’s something else.

“Drop your pants and bend over the chair,” he orders, startling me.

“Why?” I ask quietly, unable to hide the tremble in my voice. My body aches from earlier, the rough encounter leaving me bruised and sore.

Despite everything, we both know I wanted it.

“Just do it,” he says.

“Why?” I repeat. If he threatens more, I might have to refuse.

“I want to see…” His voice trails off, and he looks up at the ceiling. “I want to see what I did to you.”

“Oh.” My heart clenches. I’m confused but comply, moving to the chair. I pull down my leggings and thong, bending over to show him.

He takes a sharp breath, and his hand hovers close. I flinch, but his touch is gentle. He traces the scratches and bruises, his fingers soft against my skin. I close my eyes, savoring the moment.

This means nothing, I tell myself. He’s just inspecting his handiwork, reveling in it. And that’s okay. He doesn’t regret it, and neither do I.

“I hurt you,” he says, his voice raw.

“You have before,” I say, lowering my head as his fingers drift closer.

“I’ve never marked you like this.” His hand smooths over my skin, the touch more intimate than usual. “Are you okay?”

I calm my racing thoughts. He doesn’t care.

“I’m fine.” I open my eyes, focusing on his desk. There’s a pile of papers, textbooks, and at the bottom, my journal.

I stand and face him, not caring about my state of undress. “I want my journal.”

His face becomes a mask. “No.”

“Give it back,” I demand, anger rising. “Haven’t I done enough?”

“No,” he says, stepping closer. “You seem to forget your place.”

“I haven’t,” I snap, hating the disdain in his tone. “We’ve been doing this for a while. I think I’ve paid my dues.”

I don’t even know why I owe him. It’s a game. I’m a toy he uses and discards.

“You haven’t come close to repaying,” he says, cupping my chin. His touch ignites something in me. My body responds, craving more.

He tilts my head back, studying my face. “I looked up your mother.”

I press my lips together, staying silent.

“You resemble her. It’s unsettling. I see why my father was drawn to her,” he murmurs, his breath hot on my lips. “And why I’m drawn to you.”

I blink, caught off guard. We haven’t discussed our families in ages. To him, I’m the daughter of the woman who wrecked his family.

“You’re with me to spite your father?” I question.

“Your mother ruined my parents’ marriage,” he says.

“I think it was over before she came along,” I argue.

His expression hardens. “You don’t understand.”

“Neither do you.” I pause. “I want my journal.”

“No.”

“I’ve done enough.”

“You’ve barely started.”

“Fine.” I pull away from him, shedding my T-shirt, kicking off my leggings and thong. I stand before him, completely exposed. “Is this what you want?”

He says nothing, but his gaze is hungry. I look at his joggers, noticing his arousal.

Lifting my chin, I move to his bed, spreading myself across it. My body is on display, but I don’t care. We’ve moved beyond embarrassment. I want him to take me.

“What are you doing?” he snaps.

“Take me,” I challenge. “You know you want to.”

He approaches, hands in his pockets, feigning indifference.

“Nice,” he drawls, eyes locked on my body. “You think this will get your journal back?”

“I don’t know,” I admit, frustration creeping in. “Just get it over with.”

“What? Now you’re playing the martyr?” he says, voice hard. “You want to lie there and take it?”

“Isn’t that what you want?” I tease.

“No,” he says firmly. “I’ve never asked that of you.”

I think of our past encounters. They usually begin with something I say or do. What’s different now?

“You want me,” I say, reaching for him, my hand finding his arousal. “I can feel it.”

“Not like this. Not like a sacrifice.”

“You don’t want me willing? God, you’re so twisted.”

He grabs me roughly, his hands on my arms, his face close to mine. “Don’t call me twisted when you’re just as messed up. We both are. You love it when I’m in control, and I love it when you resist.”

“I didn’t resist earlier,” I whisper.

“You should hate me,” he says, his voice harsh. “I want you to fight.”

I struggle against his grip, squeezing him at the same time. “Like this?”

“Let go,” he warns.

“No.” I smile, my hand slipping under his sweats, touching him. He flinches, eyelids fluttering. I tease him, enjoying his reaction.

“Summer.” His voice is a warning.

“Whit.” I taunt.

He releases my arm, his hand moving to the back of my head, pushing me forward. “You want it? Take it.”

I comply, adjusting myself on the bed. He stands before me, his expression unyielding. I pull down his joggers, revealing him, and reach out to touch.

He’s human, I remind myself. No matter how he acts.

I dip my head, hair falling forward as I take him in. He responds, and a thrill runs through me. He wants this.

I lick, grip, and suck. His eyes never leave mine, a flicker of heat in them.

He wants me.

I take him deeper, until he hits the back of my throat. I’ve had limited experience before Whit, but I feel like a pro now.

“Fuck.” His favorite word. He thrusts, and I pull away, breathless. “Stop.”

He stands there, shocked. I’ve never told him to stop before. “What’s wrong, Summer?”

I lie back, my hand moving between my legs. I’m wet, my body aching. Closing my eyes, I touch myself, thoughts of Whit flooding my mind.

“What are you doing?” he asks, voice tight.

His words spur me on, and I rub myself harder. “I need to come,” I tell him, and he laughs.

“You’re something else,” he mutters.

He moves closer, his