8. Jordan #2
But I didn’t have long to consider it. I descended the stairs and turned left into the dining room to Asher’s surprised look.
“What do you think?” I asked and feigned casual confidence by outstretching my arms and giving him a spin.
He took a moment before replying. “That’s a nice fit.
” His hand walked the table to his wine glass.
He lifted it without taking his eyes off of me and pressed the edge against his lips.
He took a long sip before speaking again.
“You look great.” There was something awkward about the way he said those words, so I hurried to sit down.
“I hope dinner’s not cold,” I said and cleared my throat.
I couldn’t resist shooting him another glance over the candles and letting my eyes take in the sight.
His fine chest, his pronounced Adam’s apple, his defined jaw, his high cheekbones.
How could anyone look like that and be single at the age of twenty?
“This is good shit,” Asher said eloquently about the wine.
“Good. We’re going to deplete the cellar,” I said.
He chuckled. “Honestly, I can’t believe you’re not throwing a hissy fit that I’m drinking.”
I held my breath for a moment or two. “Frankly, I’m surprised, too.” That made him laugh, although I hadn’t completely joked about it. “Here’s the thing. There’s no avoiding booze. They don’t exactly have tight policies at the Thinker and we’ve all been freshmen at some point.”
Asher pretended he was shocked while chewing a bit of cheese. “Are you telling me the great Jordan Mitchell broke laws in his heyday?”
I snorted. “My heyday is still ahead of me, kid.”
“Call me that again, and I’ll kick your ass, dear brother,” he said.
And even though I knew he was joking, I tensed and felt a wave of panic wash over me.
Brother. I drank to hide the shock on my face.
We were not brothers. We were not even stepbrothers the way others were.
I had made sure of that. On paper, yes, but not even an iota more than that had happened to form any such bond.
The years of distance and the efforts to suppress my longing to bond with him in any way seemed so pointless when he spoke those words.
“Let’s eat,” I said dryly and served the starter. Though delicious, the food did nothing to fix my mood or my pounding heart. We ate quietly and Asher made small talk a couple of times. I engaged a bit, but I couldn’t focus.
He was not my relative. And despite Dad and Eileen’s efforts, Asher was not my stepbrother.
When I had looked him in the eyes one night and told him he was nothing to me, it was a lie.
But it was better than the truth. You are my everything.
You are all I want and can’t have. You’re the dreams I dream and the song I hear in total silence.
You’re my happy place, but I can’t let you find that out.
Asher went quiet after a time. He praised my cooking, as he had every night before, and drank more than with any dinner so far.
Then again, I was drinking, too. I opened the second bottle while we snacked on the berries but left my bowl half-finished and suggested we go to the smaller terrace behind the house.
He followed silently through the kitchen and out the back door.
We set the freshly opened bottle on the wooden table and crashed into the matching wooden terrace chairs with soft cushions.
The air was still warm and humid, but occasional gusts of wind rustled the leaves in the massive forest that surrounded us.
The music Asher played us from his phone blasted loudly as we drank.
“I was joking,” he said in a tight voice. “About kicking your ass.”
I snorted and looked at him. “For real? I was shaking.”
He pouted and my heart tripped. How could he be so cute when he thrust his lips out like that? What arcane hex was this? “You got all weird,” he pointed out. “Besides, I could stand my ground against you.”
I threw my head back and laughed. “Don’t tempt me, Asher, or I’ll wrestle you this instant.”
“In these fine clothes?” he gawked.
I sent him a determined look to make him understand I wasn’t kidding. “I’m a neat-freak athlete who knows how to remove a stain.”
He shook his head. “I’m not rolling in the grass with you.”
“There’s a surprise.” I hid my cheeky smirk behind the glass.
“Ha-ha. You think I couldn’t fight back, huh? Because I could. I’ve been working out for years, Jordan. And even if you could take me down, I’d make you work for it.” He threw his head back and poured the rest of the wine down his throat.
I matched his gesture, then got up. “Go on.”
He huffed. “This is a new shirt.”
I reached to unbutton mine. “It won’t run away if you leave it on the chair.”
He looked at me with glassy eyes and pink cheeks. “Are you serious?” His voice was airy all of a sudden as I pulled the hem of my shirt out of my pants and shrugged it all off. I threw mine on the chair. “You are. You’re fucking serious.”
“Afraid?” I teased. Stop this. Stop this right now. But I was past listening to the voice of reason. My conscience had never done me any good. It wasn’t like there was something wrong with this. Guys wrestled. It was a thing that happened. Right? Yes.
My prodding angered Asher enough to jump up on his feet and yank his pretty shirt out of his pants, then undo the buttons from the middle of his torso down. He threw it off his body and over the chair, then marched onto the lawn after me. “This is ridiculous, Jordan.”
I cracked a grin. The level of excitement I felt was the only ridiculous thing around here. His bare torso was kissed by the moonlight. My chest felt tight and my palms slick, but I wasn’t quitting now. “You’re so gonna lose,” I growled, the amusement in my voice unmistakeable.
“You’re gonna regret this,” he warned me in a distant, soft voice. He shook his head as if he couldn’t believe what was happening. His chest was rising and falling with each deep breath he drew and released.
He tensed as I leaned forward. The grass was soft under my socks.
Luckily I was fucking drunk because this would have been my nightmare in a sober state.
He was right to worry about the stains, but I couldn’t make myself care right now.
I had the chance to hold him and a big excuse to cover up the desperate longing that drove me to this.
Asher clamped his teeth around his lower lip and worked his anger to a blazing level. I’d seen him do that before games. It made him a force on the ice. But I wasn’t afraid.
What happened next wasn’t planned. No rules of a fair fight bound us.
We took off like we were in a race, arms outstretched and all the force in our legs propelling us forward.
When our chests clashed, I wrapped my big arms around his significantly lither frame, trapping his arms almost effortlessly in a heartbeat.
“Fuck,” he grunted, his head trapped in the nook of my neck.
He wrapped his arms around my torso and held his ground firmly.
To feel his heated hands on my back was something out of a dream.
His muscled chest on mine, his tensing abs against my stomach, and the light sweat that couldn’t dry in this humidity made my brain spin.
Asher growled and grunted. He cursed and jerked. No matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t break free of my hold. My arms locked around him, but his heels dug into the lawn and wouldn’t give an inch. However hard I swayed him, he wasn’t falling.
Somehow, Asher managed to lift his right leg and toss it behind my left, kicking his heel into the tendons behind my knee and making me trip.
I lost my balance, but I didn’t lose my grip.
In the next instant, I knew I should have released him.
But it was too late. We tumbled down to the ground and Asher collapsed over me.
He couldn’t support my weight no matter how strong he thought he was.
He fell over me with a smug grin on his face, his crotch smashing against mine in the process and kicking a grunt out of me.
But he was celebrating too quickly. I thrashed and twisted, rolling to my side and carrying Asher with me.
The cackle of glory he was just letting out turned into a curse and a growl of despair.
I pinned him down, although he didn’t make it easy.
His legs flailed, and he tried lifting his hips to prolong the fight, but he only ground his body against mine, writhing under me, rubbing his hot torso against mine, and gasping for air.
I managed to trap his legs under mine, practically sitting on his thighs, and lifted my torso away from him.
It pained me to break the contact I had craved for so long, but I was on the verge of victory.
I yanked his arms up and crossed his wrists, pinning them down with one hand far above his head.
He jerked again, but he could do nothing.
“Submit, Asher,” I demanded.
“No,” he gasped. He twisted his hips but failed to make any significant room for maneuvering.
“Submit,” I insisted, bringing my face closer to his.
Wine was present on his sweet breath when he huffed, “Stop fucking saying that.”
“Why?” I asked. I dug my fingers into his ribcage and made him coil and yelp.
“Not fair,” he cried. “You’re tickling me.”
“Why?” I asked again. “Submit. Go on.”
“Stop saying that word,” he spat angrily.
“Why?” I laughed at how useless his movements were all the while fearing closer contact. He couldn’t imagine the things this was doing to me and I was determined to leave it only in my imagination.