CHAPTER forty-three #13
I blink, dumbfounded, watching as Adam leads my sister onto the dance floor. My brain's buffering, trying to process this development, when the guy's hand finds its way to Sam's waist.
Oh, hell no.
They're standing close—way too close—and when he leans in to whisper something in her ear, I nearly choke on air. My fists curl automatically. I'm this close to storming over there and giving him the "overprotective brother" speech when—
I notice him.
Elijah.
He's standing a few steps behind them, — still with Eunice — but it's obvious he's not paying her any real attention anymore. His body's swaying to the music, but his eyes? Locked straight on Sam and Adam.
That glare could melt steel.
I squint, half in disbelief. Nope, not my imagination.
Elijah looks like he's mentally mapping out the fastest way to rip Adam's arms clean off his body.
I lean back, crossing my arms, a slow grin creeping up my face.
Well, well, well.
Mr. Ice-Cold-Doesn't-Dance looks about two seconds from turning into a crime of passion.
I could've sworn he's never looked at my sister with anything close to fondness before. Usually, he treats her like she's an allergic reaction waiting to happen—something to avoid at all costs.
So why the death stare now?
A quiet laugh slips out of me before I can help it.
Was Sam actually right?
When she said a few weeks ago that Elijah was starting to fall for her?
Because if that look on his face means what I think it means...
then oh, this just got interesting.
Caroline studies me. "What's with that grin? Aren't you worried about your sister?"
I cup her cheek, brushing my thumb over her skin as I smile. "I am. But I think Sam's onto something good this time."
Her brow furrows in confusion and I chuckle. "Do you really want to know?"
"Uh, yeah."
"Okay—on one condition."
Her eyes narrow, instantly suspicious — God, that look on her could stop traffic.
"After this," I murmur, voice dropping low, "you stay at my place tonight."
Her lips part, and I swear I can see the color rise in her cheeks. She looks down, nibbling on her lower lip — and that simple gesture sends a bolt of heat through me.
"Don't do that," I whisper.
Her gaze lifts, lashes fluttering, voice barely above the music. "Don't do what?"
"Chew on your lips like that." My thumb drags across her lower lip; my gaze never leaves hers, my voice rough.
"Why?"
"Because then I want to kiss you so hard, suck on these full lips until they're swollen—and once I start, I won't be able to stop."
She parts her lips in invitation. "You don't have to stop, you know."
Heat courses through me. I shift, feeling desire twitch insistently. She's still sitting on my lap and I tighten my arms around her waist, pulling her impossibly close.
"You can't say that, babe."
"Why not?"
"Because I don't think you understand what those words do to me," I rasp, brushing my mouth against her ear. "Or what they make me want to do..." I nip her earlobe and hear her soft whimper.
"I...uh," she breathes, her voice shaking. "I think I do..."
Fuck. My pulse stumbles.
Our eyes lock—dilated, drinking in the heat between us.
I shift slightly — trying not to think about the way she fits against me, how her warmth seeps into every inch of me.
"You can't say things like that, sugarplum," I murmur against her ear, my voice rougher than I intend. "Not when you're looking at me like that."
"Like what?"
"Like you're daring me to lose control."
Her lips curve, eyes glinting beneath her lashes. "What if I am?"
My breath hitches.
Those four words hit me harder than a slapshot to the chest. She's close enough that I can feel every rise and fall of her breath, the warmth of her skin brushing against mine, her perfume threading through the air like it was made to mess with my head.
"Then you're playing with fire, sugarplum," I murmur, my voice low and unsteady. "And I'm not sure I'm the kind of guy who'd want to put it out."
Her smile wobbles—part nerves, part something else. Something that mirrors the chaos wrecking me inside. "Maybe I don't want you to."
That does it. Every ounce of restraint I've been clinging to snaps clean in half.
I tilt my head, my fingers tightening at her waist as I pull her just a little closer. She's still perched on my lap, and I can feel her heartbeat racing in sync with mine. For a beat, neither of us moves—just breathing, staring, silently daring each other to close the distance first.
Then she does.
Her lips find mine—soft, certain, devastatingly sweet—and I swear the world tilts on its axis. The noise, the lights, the laughter around us—it all fades.
It's just her.
The taste of her smile, the warmth of her breath, the dizzy rush of realizing that no dream I've ever had could come close to this.
Holy hell. This girl is going to ruin me. In the best way possible.
And when she finally pulls back, her lips still brushing mine, I can't stop the stupid, giddy laugh that slips out of me.
"So... my place then?"
She nods, the corner of her mouth curling into a teasing smile. "Mmhmm. I thought my answer was already obvious."
CHAPTER forty-two
CAROLINE
Zach's mouth crashes into mine, and that's it — goodbye oxygen, goodbye rational thought, goodbye self-control.
We're half-lying, half-tangled on his bed, kissing like we've been starved for a month instead of a few days. It's all heat and heartbeat and teeth grazing lips. Every sound he makes is gravel and temptation, and every breath I take feels stolen straight from his lungs.
I've counted every single day like a prisoner marking the walls. Exams, group projects, and zero privacy — pure, torturous abstinence. We've been "good," whatever that means, and at this point I'm convinced good is overrated.
He mutters against my mouth, voice all rough edges. "Missed you."
I laugh breathlessly, tugging him closer. "Missed me or this?"
His grin is sin incarnate. "Both."
The way he says it should be illegal.
His hand slides down to my hip — warm, steady, unfair — and I swear the air goes thin.
Finally. Oh, fucking finally. Tonight, we are doing it!
After the disaster that was prom night—that beautiful, magical, perfect prom he recreated for our first date—I'm ready.
We were supposed to have our first time that night.
After the dancing and the laughter and all those I-love-yous that made my chest feel too small for my heart, we ended up in his room—just us, a movie, and enough tension to power a small city.
I was nervous. Like, heart-doing-cardio nervous.
Halfway through the movie, I told myself to take a breather, snuck off to the bathroom, stared at the mirror, and whispered something like, "Okay, Caroline, chill. It's just Zach. Your boyfriend. Whom you've kissed. A lot. Stop acting like you're about to defuse a bomb."
By the time I'd finally calmed my heartbeat down to a semi-normal human rhythm, I stepped back out ready to seize the moment.
And what do I find?
Zach. Out cold.
Sprawled across the bed, still in his jeans, arm hanging dramatically off the side like he'd just lost a battle with gravity.
Snoring.
I just stood there, blinking at him for a full minute, torn between laughter and homicide.
Part of me wanted to throw a pillow at his face. The other part wanted to tuck him in and kiss his forehead because he looked so stupidly peaceful.
So yeah, that was that. The night of our almost-first-time.
I didn't even get to be disappointed properly because, honestly, the man had been running on fumes. He'd barely slept for days planning that surprise prom just to make me happy.
So, I forgave him for sleeping on me.
Literally.
That was a week ago.
A whole week.
And let me tell you—this past week? Pure torture.
We've been dating officially for seven days, and I swear, I've never known true suffering until now. Because every time we're alone, it's the same thing—kissing like we're seconds from setting off the fire alarm, only to stop right before things get interesting.
It's like emotional edging on god-tier difficulty and I'm one more make-out session away from chewing through drywall. At this point, I'm convinced we could power the Ridgewater grid with the heat between us alone.
And the worst part? We're both trying to play it cool.
We're still adjusting, still learning the rhythm of us—but every time his mouth finds mine, it feels less like learning and more like remembering something my body's known forever.
He kisses like a sin and a prayer all at once, and I'm over here trying not to melt into a puddle of pure need.
But then—right when things start to really, really build—Zach pulls back. Every. Damn. Time.
He's being all "gentlemanly." Respectful.
And yeah, okay, it's sweet. Adorable, even.
Except it's also driving me absolutely insane.
Like, hello? Didn't we already agree we're stupidly hot for each other?
What's stopping him? Divine intervention?
His hands never wander beyond my hips or thighs. That's it. No exploring, no wandering fingers, nothing. Just enough to make my brain short-circuit and then—boom—he stops.
Well, not tonight.
Tonight, I'm done being patient.
No more halfway. No more waiting.
If Zach Westbrook wants to keep being a gentleman, fine.
I'll just have to be the one who stops playing nice.
"Touch me, Zach..." I whisper against his lips, every word tangled with a kiss.
"W–what?" he rasps, voice wrecked.
I meet his gaze, pupils blown wide. "Touch me."
"Babe..." He swallows, his voice a low growl that sounds like it's fighting with his self-control. "I don't think that's a good idea."
"Why not?" I breathe, brushing my mouth over his jaw, taunting. "Don't you want me?"
His laugh is broken, disbelieving. "Are you kidding? I want you so bad it's driving me insane." His words come out rough, unsteady. "You have no idea how much I want to feel every inch of your skin, how much I need to be inside you..."
A rush of heat floods between my thighs, my body responding instantly to his words.