Chapter 8
Elijah
Oh. My. God. What the actual fuck did I do?
I groaned inwardly because I knew what I’d done.
I hadn’t been drunk enough to black out or forget, but apparently drunk enough to make another really stupid decision that was going to bite me in the ass.
I could feel that Enyo’s spot on the bed was empty, and she was probably already in the kitchen waiting for her breakfast. I just wasn’t ready to get up and face reality.
I could feel him behind me. I could feel his body heat, which meant he was too close, but I could feel his aura too.
Taunting me. Letting me know how dumb I was to have ever let my guard down around him, even for a second.
The whole thing was so me that I wanted to go throw up in the driveway again.
I squeezed my eyes shut. My ass hurt and I could feel cum on various parts of my body.
We hadn’t even bothered with a condom because in my drunken haze that would just have taken too long.
I felt him shift behind me, and I knew he was waking up.
I tried to fight off my panic, unsure of what to do.
I couldn’t leave, it was my house. I didn’t want to be here when he woke up, though.
I didn’t want to talk to him. The entire night had thrown me for a loop.
At first I’d thought he must have been there to join in with those assholes he used to hang out with.
But he rescued me instead, insisted on giving me a ride, and pretended to care when I puked my guts up in the driveway.
Then he refused to acknowledge my desire for him to leave and came into my house without permission.
Then he told me he liked me? Back in high school?
Mason Hale was gay? What the actual fuck?
And then the kiss. He didn’t even give me time to process what was happening.
He claimed he’d beaten me up because he was scared?
Even if he was telling the truth, that didn’t make it okay to treat me the way he had.
And some absolutely mind-blowing sex didn’t make up for it either. What was wrong with me?
I tried not to groan in misery because I didn’t want him to know I was awake, but I felt like total shit on top of all my other problems. My head was pounding since I’d mixed a bunch of different types of alcohol and barely finished the bottle of water Mason gave me.
Despite the water and the mint I’d eaten, my mouth tasted like I’d had a snack out of Enyo’s litter box.
At least I wasn’t nauseous, but I still felt rough as hell.
I needed water, coffee, and ibuprofen, fast.
Mason turned over behind me, and I knew he was completely awake.
I didn’t move. I wasn’t ready to face what I’d done.
“I can tell you’re awake, Elijah. I’ll leave if you want me to.
I was too tired to drive last night. Thanks for letting me crash here.
” I hadn’t really let him, but hadn’t stopped him either.
I finally sat up in bed, facing away from him as I swung my legs over the side and pulled the covers tightly around my waist as I moved.
I looked at my dresser, trying to figure out how to grab a pair of shorts without walking across the room naked.
I didn’t see my clothes from the previous night, and I wasn’t sure where they’d been tossed.
I was aware that he’d seen me last night in my full glory, and watched me ride his dick like it was the damn cavalry come to save me, but sober and in the morning light . . . I didn’t want him to see me now.
He must have understood my dilemma, because he wasn’t shy, and he climbed right out of bed and walked around it into my line of vision, forcing me to look at him.
Holy fuck. How was he so hot? Way hotter than he’d ever been in high school.
Those tattoos all over him, the muscles that were bulging even though he wasn’t flexing, the stubble all over his face, that fucking jaw .
. . his thick cock. I finally caught myself and turned away.
He walked over to the dresser I’d been staring at and said, “Which drawer?”
“Top one,” I muttered, averting my eyes.
I saw him walk over to it in my peripheral vision, and I couldn’t stop the glance at his toned ass.
He pulled the drawer open and I looked away again before he tossed a pair of cotton shorts onto the bed beside me.
He walked over to the foot of the bed and grabbed his pants, then he pulled them on, still facing me even though I refused to look.
His body was top-notch, and I didn’t remember his face being so fucking perfect even back when I had a crush on him as a teenager.
He had dark circles, and sadness embedded deep in those hazel eyes that he was trying to cover up, the only things marring his perfection.
I suddenly remembered the first time his skin had touched mine the previous night.
The pain he was trying to keep inside was overwhelming. I dared to glance over at him.
He had his pants on and was looking at me.
“You have some water in your fridge?” he asked me.
I nodded since I had a filtered pitcher in there, assuming he was just thirsty.
He left the room and I heard him rummaging around.
A moment later he came back into my room with a huge glass of ice water.
He held it out to me. “You want me to start some coffee?” he asked softly.
“Do you have some aspirin or something somewhere? I’m sure you have a hangover. ”
I just stared at him as I took the water he offered.
Was he trying to take care of me? Was it guilt for what he perceived as taking advantage of me?
Or maybe just old guilt? It didn’t matter.
I didn’t want his help. This was Mason. The first of many men I’d let hurt me, but the one that by far hurt the most.
When I didn’t answer him, he let out a soft sigh and left the room.
I heard him in the kitchen again and quickly pulled on the shorts while he was distracted.
When I made it out of the bedroom, the glass of water almost gone, I discovered he’d started my coffee maker.
“I figured you’d want it strong this morning,” he said, glancing back at me.
“Do you want me to make you some breakfast? It might make you feel better.” I was at a loss for words.
I didn’t want him here. I didn’t want to talk, didn’t want to remember.
And yet I didn’t tell him to leave. Instead, I turned and walked into the bathroom, using it and grabbing a couple of ibuprofen from the cabinet, taking them with the last of the water as I walked back out into the living room.
That absolute asshole had started making bacon and French toast in my kitchen, and my traitorous stomach rumbled because it smelled ridiculously good and I was starving.
I sighed and plopped down in a kitchen chair, staring at his perfect, tattooed back.
I only had one tattoo, a Celtic shield knot.
It was over my heart, for protection. It hadn’t worked great so far, but I was still clinging to it.
He didn’t turn to look at me as he spoke.
“I’m sorry if I fucked up again.” Had he, though?
I’d been hammered. I’d been pissed as hell.
He’d kissed me out of nowhere and took me to my bedroom without permission.
He called me a cockslut. On the other hand, I’d been well aware of everything that was happening even though I was drunk.
I knew where he was taking me when he picked me up, and I’d gone right back for more when he dropped me on the bed. Also, I kind of was being a cockslut.
Despite the timing seeming a little shady, I was pretty sure our activities hadn’t been his plan when he offered to drive me home.
He seemed to legitimately feel guilty about the past. Like, really guilty.
I wasn’t quite ready to forgive him for ruining my senior year and shattering my heart in the process, but round two was definitely not off the table.
I kind of wanted to beat my head into the wall, because if I was being honest with myself, my horny ass was ready to hop back on his cock right this moment.
Let him do whatever he wanted. Let him have his fucking way with me.
I managed not to outwardly cringe at myself. “Seems like there were two of us fucking up this time,” I said. “Or you know, just fucking. I’m not sure on the up part quite yet. I’m still trying to figure that out.”
He flipped the French toast and slowly turned to face me.
His eyes were down but they finally slid up to look at me directly.
Why the fuck did he have to be so hot? “I didn’t offer to bring you home to try to take advantage of the fact you were plastered,” he said softly, with none of the confidence or bravado I knew from him.
“I swear. I was worried someone would follow you. I wanted to make sure you were okay. I feel . . . I don’t think I can ever make it all up to you after the way I treated you back then.
I just . . . you were right there last night, and with all that passion, even though it was anger, just .
. . all the emotions I felt back then came back and I couldn’t . . . I just couldn’t not tell you.”
I let him place a plate of food in front of me and hesitantly sit down across the table with his own.
He looked at me and paused, as though waiting for my permission to eat.
“You’re right,” I finally said, taking a bite.
Damn it, he could cook too. “You can’t make it up to me.
You fucking betrayed me. You humiliated me and broke my heart.
You were supposed to be my best friend, but you hurt me, physically and emotionally.
” He looked down, and I enjoyed the utter remorse on his face.
“But I guess, at some point, I might think about hearing you out, or something.”