For some reason, Isaac couldn't shake the feeling that Allison was winning.
As to what, he had no idea. When it had even become a competition was a mystery too, but there had been something triumphant in Allison's bearing ever since the whole 'let's-undress-each-other-in-a-closet' situation last week, and the feeling of coming off worse had lodged itself under his skin.
Isaac was used to coming off worse. With Camden, with his father, with Derek – even after the bite, he still couldn't shake the feeling that he was the weakest link, always being measured and falling short, being judged and found wanting. Isaac always lost, and was tired of it.
For once, Isaac was going to win.
Which was easier said than done, but fortunately for Isaac an opportunity arose without him having to manufacture one, because that probably would have resulted in disaster anyway. But that was whatever. His lack of diabolical planning skills aside, being paired with her in orienteering was pretty much the best thing that could have happened.
Well. It was a start.
"Is that number nine, do you think?"
Isaac lolled his head around to look at Allison, ignoring the post she was pointing at. "You have the map, do you not?"
Allison smiled. "So you are still capable of speech. I was starting to wonder."
"Yes, I am still perfectly capable of using my mouth to make words," he drawled, before flashing her a wicked grin. "I just think there are much better things I could be doing with it."
"Oh? Like what?"
"Like, maybe... eating or something."
"Eating or something," Allison repeated. She bent over to stamp their card at the post, but when she turned around Isaac was pointedly examining his fingernails and not her ass. "You can't think of anything else?"
Isaac cocked his head to the side innocently. "Is there anything else I should have thought of?"
Allison shrugged. "Come to think of it, I don't think there's actually much else your mouth is good for."
"Oh really?" he failed to keep the amusement out of his voice as they set off for the next post. "Surely it must be good for something."
She stopped for a moment, and gave him a long, considering look. "Nope," she said eventually, smirking. "Nothing at all."
Before she could move away, Isaac reached and grabbed her arm, pulling her closer. "You sure about that?" he said, ghosting his breath across her jaw.
Isaac had expected a reaction – girls like Allison didn't appreciate being pushed around – and she sure as hell didn't disappoint. The next moment found him backed against a tree, her forearm pressed firmly up under his chin. "Absolutely," she replied, a hint of steel in her gaze.
That bitter tang crept into the air.
Seriously? This is turning her on? "When's the last time you even had sex, Allison?" he asked, incredulous.
"What?" She slammed him back, her fingers fisting in his shirt and skin, and he let her.
"It has been a long time, hasn't it?" he pressed, delighting in the weak spot he had found. "Because you and Scott broke up a while back now, and you don't strike me as the type to sleep around. That's a pretty big dry patch, huh?"
"Shut up," she snarled, angry now, as she surged forward again. He grabbed her arms and tugged her around, reversing their positions with insulting ease.
"When's the last time you fucked all night?" he whispered, tilting his face so their breathing could tangle in the non-space between them. She strained against him furiously, but he didn't falter. "When's the last time you came so hard and so long you forgot where you are?" He searched her face, picked out the falter behind the defiance. "That never happened with him, did it?"
Allison's grip tightened painfully, her outrage warring with the bitter attraction and the press of his body against hers. The tension in her body changed track. "He was gentle and soft and cosy, I bet," he went on, meeting her burning gaze with his own. "Whereas you and me, we'd be anything but cosy."
Her pupils practically eclipsed her eyes, wide and dark. "What would we be, Isaac?" she bit out.
"We'd be amazing," he breathed.
Isaac felt her resolve splinter, snap, shatter beneath his hands as she dragged his mouth onto hers with bruising force.
It was ferocious, a clash of lips and tongues and even teeth, and the rush of the blood in their veins and the quickening thump of their pulse and rasp of their breath filled his ears until he could hear nothing else. He reached with one hand to catch her wrists and pin them above her head. He broke the kiss, trailing his lips along her jaw and down her neck, scraping his teeth over her pulse.
"What are you—" whatever she was going to say was cut off as his other hand slid below the waist of her shorts. "Oh."
He ghosted his fingers along the hem of her surprisingly lacy panties and her breath hitched in her throat. "Oh."
"Shut up," he mouthed softly against her skin, dipping his fingers lower and lower. "Or I'll have to stop."
The order rankled with her; he could tell because her nails started to break the skin of his neck and shoulder. But she stayed silent, taking deep shuddering breaths instead as his long, clever fingers set to work in earnest.
A coil of heat curled in his stomach, but he pressed it down, iced it in his mind. This was not about him.
Allison was panting now, almost whining with every breath, and she pulled him in for another desperate kiss to hide the low moan building in her throat.
They broke apart a moment later, breathing heavily. Allison leaned her head against his forehead. Her fingers had finally released their vice grip on his skin, but her eyes were still sensually dark. They stood in silence.
"Well," Isaac said eventually. "Seems my fingers at least are good for something."
He ducked the swipe at his head with a laugh.
Stiles kicked at a pile of leaves sulkily, letting out an excessive snort of air as he kicked a stone accidently. He hated orienteering. Like, how was it even part of the curriculum? Everyone in Beacon Hills already knew how to use a freakin' map, thank you very much. Even field hockey was better than this, and Stiles spent most of those lessons in the nurses' office holding ice packs to various parts of his body.
To add insult to injury, Scott wasn't even in his gym class. Some bullshit about alternate time tables meant he couldn't even bitch to his best friend about the lameness of tramping around the woods during school hours – he had to make do with Hilary Johnson, who despite having a fairly impressive rack was a complete bitch and evil straight down to her core. She was actually responsible for most of his hockey injuries last year, now he came to think about it.
Stiles' internal rambling was interrupted by yelling. "Three? How on earth did you only manage three posts? Were you holding the map the wrong way up or something?"
The lanky boy looked up with interest, and was surprised to see the pair in question.
Isaac (who could probably just smell where the damn things were and when the hell did he get so fashionable anyway?) shrugged. "We got lost."
Allison (who was a hunter, ditto) looked suitably chastened. "Sorry, Coach."
Stiles tuned out of the rest of Finstock's tirade. Something was off, here. Neither teen, despite putting on an air of contriteness (well, Allison was at least), looked particularly affected by the inventive insults streaming out of their teacher's mouth. There was more of a curl to Isaac's lips than normal. Allison was practically glowing. And despite what appeared to be an attempt to neaten themselves up, they both looked a little more dishevelled than orienteering really called for.
Realisation struck like a ton of bricks, and Stiles nearly choked on his tongue.
Well shit.