Chapter 19
ELIJAH
I squint at my textbook, the words swimming together after an hour of straight studying. I flip to the next section—and frown. The section I need isn't here. But then I realize that I lent those notes to Zach. Tomorrow's test is going to kick my ass if I don't review them—and I still have half a chapter left to go.
Shit. I rub my eyes, glancing at the time. He probably hasn't left for that fancy gala thing with Sam yet. The thought of her name sends an unwelcome heat through my chest—a reaction I've been trying to kill since that night. That kiss. That mistake that won't stop replaying in my head like a song I can't get rid of.
Slamming my book shut, I push away from my desk and stretch. My neck cracks in three places. Hockey practice was brutal today. I don't need this academic crap on top of it, but here I am, desperate for my notes because I can't afford to bomb another test.
Zach's room is just down the hall. I'll grab my notes and be back to studying in two minutes flat. I don't even bother knocking—we've lived together long enough that boundaries are pretty much theoretical at this point. I've seen him in worse states than whatever I might walk in on.
But it's not Zach I find when I push the door open.
It's Sam.
Her back is to me—bare except for two thin straps and the open zipper of her dress that reveals a long strip of skin all the way down to the small of her back. The dress is midnight blue, some silky material that catches the light when she moves. Her spine curves delicately, two perfect dimples just above where the fabric comes together. I freeze in the doorway, my throat suddenly dry.
"Zach, thank God," she says, still facing away from me. "Can you help me with this zipper? This dress is freaking complicated. I swear the designer must've had some kind of vendetta against women actually being able to dress themselves."
I should say something. I should announce that I'm not Zach. I should back out and close the door. I should do anything except stand here, staring at the gentle slope of her back like I've never seen skin before.
But I can't move. Can't speak. Can't think.
She glances over her shoulder, irritated at the silence, and her eyes pop wide when they land on me. "Eli!" She spins around, clutching the front of her dress to her chest even though it's not slipping. "What are you—I thought you were—" She stops, collects herself. "Knock much?"
The room feels too small suddenly. Like all the air has been sucked out, replaced with the light floral scent that always follows her around. I take a half step back, my hand still on the doorknob.
"Sorry," I manage, voice rougher than I intend. "I was looking for Zach. Needed my notes."
"He's downstairs," she says, color rising in her cheeks. "Since you're here... could you help me? I can't reach the zipper."
No. The answer should be no. The answer needs to be no, because I can't trust myself to be that close to her, to touch her, to breathe in whatever perfume is making my head spin from across the room.
"Yeah, sure," I hear myself say, like I'm listening to someone else use my voice. Like I'm watching myself from outside my body as I step into the room and let the door swing shut behind me.
The few steps it takes to cross to her feel like walking through quicksand. Each one bringing me closer to something I've been avoiding for weeks now. Since that night I kissed her and she kissed me back and everything got so beautifully, terribly complicated.
I stand behind her, close enough to feel the heat radiating off her skin but not touching her yet. Her hair falls loose down her back in soft, polished waves, with a few strands framing her face.
"Thanks," she murmurs, gathering her hair and pulling it completely to one side, exposing her neck. I can see the fine hairs there standing on end, like she can feel me looking at her.
I swallow hard, my fingers trembling slightly as I reach for the zipper. It's ridiculous—I've hooked up with plenty of girls, removed plenty of clothing, never with this much reverence. Never feeling like I'm standing on the edge of a cliff.
My fingertips brush against her skin as I take hold of the zipper, and she shivers. I feel it too—that jolt of electricity that passes between us. It's not static. It's something else. Something dangerous.
I should zip her up quickly and back away. That would be the smart move. Instead, I find myself tracing a line from the nape of her neck down her spine with my fingertip. Her skin is so soft it feels unreal, like touching silk warmed by the sun.
"Eli..."
I force myself to focus on the task. The zipper slides up slowly, each tooth clicking into place with a finality that feels like sealing fate. As the gap closes, covering that expanse of skin, I feel a strange disappointment mixed with relief. When it's done, my hands linger at the top, near the clasp at her neck. I can see her pulse fluttering there, fast and erratic. Matching mine.
She turns slowly to face me, looking up through her lashes with a sweet, uncertain smile. Her lips part to say something, but I can't hear it over the rushing in my ears. I'm drowning in her scent. It wraps around me like a fog, clouding my judgment, making me forget all the reasons why I need to keep my distance.
I'm not sure when it started, when Sam began having this effect on me, but after that first kiss, I was gone. She's become my favorite kind of poison—sweet, lethal, and impossible to quit. One taste and she rewired something in me. I crave her like an addict chasing his next hit, shaking from withdrawal every second she's not near.
I want her. God, I want her so bad it hurts to breathe.
I'm hanging by a thread—one touch away from snapping, from losing the last shred of control I have left. Because if I give in, I'll take her the way she wants me to... The way I need to. But what she wants and what I want are worlds apart. She wants flowers, promises, the goddamn forever. She wants love.
And me? I'm allergic to the damn thing. It's a sickness I swore I'd never catch. I've seen what it does—how it ruins, rots, and destroys. I've seen how it tore my parents apart until all that was left was the wreckage. So yeah. Screw love. I built my immunity. No attachments. No promises. No hearts involved.
But then one night—one reckless, goddamn night—I kissed her, and now every breath tastes like her, every heartbeat feels like withdrawal. And the worst part? I think I want the overdose.
My hand moves of its own accord, finding the side of her neck. My thumb traces her jawline while my fingers curl around the nape of her neck. Her eyes go half-lidded at my touch, and I feel my lips quirk up in satisfaction. She likes it. She likes me touching her. The knowledge sends a rush of heat through my veins.
Her pulse jumps beneath my fingertips, tempting me to press my lips there, to taste her skin, to leave a mark that would tell everyone at that gala tonight that she's taken. That she's mine.
The possessiveness of that thought should scare me. Instead, it fuels the fire building inside me.
"I wanna kiss you," I say, the words falling from my mouth before I can catch them. The rational part of my brain is offline, drowned out by the buzz of desire coursing through me.
Sam's eyebrows shoot up, surprise written across her face. "Eli..." she says, my name like a melody on her lips.
I drag my fingers down her arm in a slow caress, feeling the goosebumps rise in their wake. She shivers, and a soft whimper escapes her that nearly undoes me.
"Eli... what are you doing?" Her breathing is ragged now, her chest rising and falling rapidly.
"I don't know," I tell her honestly, my voice so low and husky I barely recognize it. My lips hover close to hers, not quite touching, sharing the same air.
My hands find her waist, then her hips, then slide lower. She trembles under my touch, her skin pebbling, every hair standing on end.
"Are you... drunk?" she asks, her voice hopeful and afraid all at once.
"I really wish I was." I nip at her earlobe, and she squirms against me, fighting back a squeal that ends as a gasp.
"Why? So you can backpedal and blame this on another drunken mistake?"
"No..." My hands tighten on her hips. "I wish I was drunk so I have a reason why I'm doing this... instead of—" I break off, confusion clouding my thoughts. "Fuck! What are you doing to me, little devil? You make me wanna do things to you."
"Like what?" Her question is bold, challenging.
I press my mouth to her neck, sucking gently at the sensitive skin there, and she moans. My hands press harder against her waist, drawing her closer.
"Nothing good," I murmur against her skin. "Just pure, sinful thoughts… the kind of thoughts I shouldn't be having about you… I want to corrupt you…"
"Since when?" she prompts, breathless. "Since you kissed me?"
"Yes! That fucking kiss that's been haunting me ever since." The admission tears from me like it's been ripped from somewhere deep inside.
Her hands come up to cup my face, gently guiding me to look her in the eyes. The tenderness of the gesture almost hurts more than if she'd slapped me.
"Then stop fighting this, Eli," she says softly, her eyes searching mine.
"This what?"
"This thing between us... can't you feel what's happening right now?" Her thumb traces my bottom lip. "There's a connection here. Something real. I know you feel it too."
"Sam—"
"I think," she says carefully, "that you're afraid. Not of me, but of what I make you feel. That maybe it's something like... love."
The word hits me like ice water. Love. The trap. The lie. The thing I've sworn to avoid at all costs.
I step back, breaking contact so suddenly it feels like tearing a bandage from a wound. My head clears instantly, rational thought flooding back in to fill the void where desire had been.
"I'm sorry," I say, shaking my head to clear the last of the fog. "I shouldn't have—this was—" I take another step back, then another, putting space between us like it's a shield. "I'm sorry," I repeat, and then I'm turning, reaching for the door, escaping before I can see the hurt in her eyes.
I close the door behind me and lean against it, heart hammering in my chest, the ghost of her scent still clinging to my skin. What the hell is wrong with me? I push off the door and stride down the hallway, notes forgotten, leaving behind everything I want but can't let myself have.
*****
I'm thirty minutes late to the hockey house, balancing two cases of beer that Zach insisted were "absolutely critical" for this impromptu barbecue he texted about. The smell of charred meat and bourbon glaze hits me before I even reach the backyard, along with the splash of water and laughter. Cody's distinctive cackle rises above the others, followed by what sounds like Zach's deeper rumble and a couple of female voices I can't immediately place.
I adjust my grip on the beer cases, trying not to think about how my teammates are already having fun while I've been playing delivery boy. My t-shirt sticks to my back in the afternoon heat, and my fingers are cramping from carrying these damn cases halfway across campus because my car decided today was the perfect day to not start.
I nudge the screen door open with my foot and step onto the patio, a grin stretching across my face. "Got the booze, assho—"
The word dies in my throat. My lungs seize up, refusing to complete their basic function. The beer cases suddenly weigh a thousand pounds in my hands.
In the pool, Zach is standing chest-deep in the water with Caroline perched on his shoulders. But it's the other pair that makes my vision tunnel. Sam is perched on Cody's shoulders, wearing a red bikini—that goddamn red bikini again—that should be illegal in at least forty states.
A white-hot sensation blooms in my chest, spreading outward until my fingers tingle with it. I've never wanted to drown someone more than I want to drown Cody right now. His hands are wrapped around Sam's thighs to steady her—her smooth, flawless thighs that are now slick with water—and every point of contact between them is like a branding iron on my eyeballs.
I want to rip his hands away. I want to storm into the pool and tear her off his shoulders.
I can't explain the burning rage that is suddenly swirling in my gut. Can't rationalize why I suddenly want to snap Cody's neck for doing nothing more than playing a stupid pool game.
The beer cases slip from my suddenly numb fingers and hit the patio with a loud thud. The bottles clink ominously, and I snap out of my homicidal trance long enough to look down, exhaling in relief when I see none have broken.
"Shit,"
"Eli! You're here!" Sam's voice, bright and excited, cuts through the air. I look up just in time to see Caroline taking advantage of Sam's distraction, shoving hard against her hands. Sam's balance falters, her mouth forming a perfect O of surprise before she topples backward with a squeal, taking Cody down with her in a splash of limbs and water.
"Cheater!" she yells when she surfaces, sputtering and pushing wet hair from her face.
"Not our fault you got distracted, Sammy," Caroline teases, still triumphantly perched on Zach's shoulders.
Everyone laughs, and something inside me loosens its grip when Sam is no longer physically connected to Cody.
That's when Sam climbs out of the pool.
Sweet merciful hockey Jesus.
The sight of her climbing out stops all rational thought in my brain.
She moves like she's in some slow-motion sequence from a movie I shouldn't be watching. Water cascades down her body as she pulls herself up the steps. Her hands sweep her wet hair back, wringing it out with a twist of her wrists that makes the muscles in her arms flex in a way that shouldn't be hypnotic but absolutely is.
The red bikini clings to every curve, revealing more than it conceals—the soft swell of her breasts, the dip of her waist, the flare of her hips. Water droplets trace paths I want to follow with my fingers, my mouth.
I'm staring. I know I'm staring. But I can't stop.
Her skin glistens in the sunlight, and when she catches my eye, her lips curl into a smile that does things to me that I refuse to acknowledge. Nope. No. Don't go there. Don't you fucking dare. Don't—oh fuck.
I grab one of the beer cases from the ground, turning away so fast I nearly give myself whiplash. I need to get to the cooler. I need something cold. Preferably an ice bath for my entire body, or maybe just my head dunked repeatedly until I forget what Sam looks like in that swimsuit. I need anything to counteract the heat flooding my body and the unmistakable tightening in my pants.
"Need help with that?" Kentaro appears beside me, reaching down to grab the second case of beer. He's the only one of my teammates who isn't soaking wet, dressed in cargo shorts and a faded Radiohead t-shirt instead of swim trunks.
"Thanks," I mutter, focusing intensely on arranging the beers in the cooler full of ice like it's some complex puzzle that requires my absolute concentration. "Why is she here again?"
I don't specify who "she" is. I don't need to.
Kentaro gives me a sidelong glance, his expression knowing in a way that makes me want to shove his face in the cooler. "It was Sam who planned the barbecue. She showed up with groceries right after we got back from the rink. Said something about 'you guys having a gorgeous day off, and how it would be a crime to waste it.'"
My eyebrow twitches. I want to march over to Zach and shake him for not giving me a heads-up that his sister was behind this. If I'd known, I would have invented some excuse. Claimed a study session. Feigned food poisoning. Anything to be far, far away from the temptation that's been haunting me for weeks.
"You good, man?" Kentaro asks, pushing bottles into the ice. "You look like you're trying to murder that beer with your eyes."
"I'm fine," I lie, shoving another bottle into the ice with unnecessary force.
I risk a glance over my shoulder. Sam is talking animatedly with Caroline by the grill. She gestures with her hands as she speaks, her smile wide and infectious. Even from here, I can see the water droplets still clinging to her collarbone, shimmering in the afternoon sun.
She laughs at something Caroline says, throwing her head back in a way that exposes the long line of her throat. The sound carries across the yard, light and musical, and something inside me clenches. Something that has no business clenching when it comes to Zach's little sister.
I turn back to the cooler, grab a beer, and crack it open with more force than necessary. The foam spills over my hand, and I lick it off before taking a long pull from the bottle.
Maybe if I drink enough, I'll stop noticing the way Sam's wet footprints glisten on the concrete. Stop counting the freckles scattered across her shoulders. Stop wondering what it would feel like to trace them with my fingertips.
An hour later, I've got a death grip on my beer as I watch Thompson and Davis eyeing Sam from across the yard. Their gazes keep drifting to her ass when she bends over to grab a soda from the cooler, lingering there a beat too long. My jaw clenches so hard I'm surprised my teeth don't crack.
What the hell is wrong with them?
What the hell is wrong with me?
I drain my beer in three long gulps, gripping the now empty bottle in my fist. Sam laughs at something Davis says, and the sound cuts through me like a skate blade. That laugh—bright and uninhibited—makes something in my chest constrict. It feels too personal, too intimate for a casual backyard gathering.
My gaze narrows as Davis leans in, saying something that makes her throw her head back in another burst of laughter. His eyes drift downward to the curve of her neck, to the water droplets still clinging to her skin, and I see red. That smile is supposed to be—
I halt the thought before it can fully form. Supposed to be what? Supposed to be mine? Jesus Christ, what is happening to me?
"Man, Zach's sister is looking fine today," Carlson says, coming up beside me with a fresh beer. I grunt noncommittally, hoping he'll drop it. He doesn't. "That red bikini is like, engineered for sin."
"She's Zach's sister," I say flatly, as if that's explanation enough for why he should shut the hell up.
"I'm just saying," Carlson continues, oblivious to the way my knuckles are turning white around my empty bottle. "If she wasn't your girl already—"
"She's not my girl," I snap, the words coming out sharper than intended. Carlson raises his eyebrows at me, and I force myself to relax my expression. "I mean, we're not together."
"Seriously?" Davis appears, "So no one would mind if I asked her out? She's been giving me vibes all afternoon."
'She has not' I want to say but then mentally kick myself. Why do I care? I don't care.
"I dunno, man," Carlson says, his eyes still on Sam. "Cap doesn't seem to like her that way, but I heard from Zach that she's been into him forever."
"So she's fair game?" Davis grins, running a hand through his still-wet hair. "Because that ass in that bikini is—"
"She's not a fucking deer hunt," I growl, the words escaping before I can stop them. Both guys turn to look at me, surprise written across their faces. I clear my throat, trying to dial it back. "I just mean... show some respect, that's Zach's sister."
"Whoa, chill," Davis says, raising his hands. "No disrespect intended. She's hot, that's all."
"And single," Carlson adds, giving me a pointed look. "Since you don't like her."
I open my mouth to respond but can't find words that won't betray the confusion rioting inside me. Because I don't like her. Not like that. The fact that my eyes keep tracking her movements across the yard, the fact that my body temperature spikes every time she laughs, the fact that I want to body-check Davis into next week for looking at her like that—none of that means anything.
"I need help in the kitchen," I call out suddenly, the words tumbling out before I've even formed a coherent thought. Everyone turns to look at me, including Sam. "Sam, could you... help me find stuff?"
Her eyebrows shoot up in surprise, but her lips curve into a smile that makes my stomach do a weird flip.
"Sure thing, Eli," she says, the hint of a tease in her voice. She sets down her drink and walks toward me, all long legs and swaying hips in that goddamn red bikini.
Davis whistles under his breath. I resist the urge to elbow him in the ribs.
Sam reaches me, her stormy gray eyes bright with curiosity. "What do you need help finding?" she asks. "I'm pretty sure you know where everything is."
I don't answer. Instead, I crook two fingers, signaling her to follow me inside. I sense rather than see her puzzled expression as she trails behind me into the empty kitchen. The house is quiet compared to the rowdy backyard, the only sound the hum of the refrigerator and the distant splash of water from outside.
I turn to face her, crossing my arms over my chest. "You need to change," I say without preamble.
"Excuse me?" She blinks, clearly caught off guard.
"Put something over that bikini. A shirt or something."
Her eyebrows draw together, confusion turning to amusement. "Any particular reason why, Eli? Is my swimsuit offending your delicate sensibilities?"
I clench my jaw, hating the way my name sounds in her mouth, all soft and familiar. "The guys are all staring at you."
"And?" She cocks her hip, a challenging gleam entering her eyes. "They're free to look. I don't have a problem with it." She takes a step closer, invading my personal space in a way that makes it hard to breathe. "Especially you," she adds, her voice dipping lower. "You can look all you want."
Heat rushes to my face, and I know I'm flushing. Goddammit.
"That's not—I don't—" I stutter, taking a step back only to hit the counter behind me.
"What? Cat got your tongue?" She's enjoying this, the little devil. Her eyes dance with mischief as she watches me squirm.
"Just put something on," I insist, trying to sound authoritative rather than desperate.
"Are you jealous, Eli?" she asks, her head tilted to one side, studying me like I'm some fascinating puzzle she's trying to solve.
"No!" I say immediately, too forcefully. "Absolutely not. Why would I be jealous?"
"Oh, okay." Her smile doesn't falter, but something shifts in her eyes—disappointment? "If you would have told me you are, I might have reconsidered. Too bad." She turns toward the door. "Gotta go. We're playing chicken again."
The thought of her climbing back onto Cody's shoulders—or worse, Davis'—sends a fresh wave of that inexplicable anger through me.
Before I can think better of it, I reach out and grab her arm, spinning her back to me. My other hand finds her hip, fingers splaying against the bare skin just above the edge of her bikini bottom.
She gasps, pupils dilating as I back her against the refrigerator door. For a heartbeat, I see surprise flash across her face, then unmistakable heat. I drop to one knee, my breath hot against her stomach before I press my open mouth to the soft skin of her waist, just above her hip bone.
The taste of her skin floods my senses. I drag my teeth lightly across the chlorine-sweet flesh, feeling her muscles tense beneath my tongue. I suck hard enough to bruise, growling low in my throat when she arches into me with a half-suppressed whimper, her fingers clutching my shoulder. The vibration of that sound travels straight through me.
I pull back, a cocky smirk spreading across my face as I admire the dark mark I've branded onto her skin. Her lips are parted, breath coming in short pants, eyes half-lidded and hungry.
"If you don't want them to see that hickey—especially your brother—you'd better go upstairs and change," I say, my voice huskier than I intended.
Sam's mouth hangs open in disbelief. She stares at the mark on her hip, then back at me, her cheeks flushed. I walk away before she can respond, feeling both triumphant and slightly terrified at what I've just done.
Five minutes later, Sam comes out to the backyard again. She's now wearing a loose white t-shirt over her bikini, the hem falling to mid-thigh. Her eyes immediately find mine where I'm sitting by the edge of the pool, a cigarette dangling from my fingers. She narrows her gaze and strides purposefully toward me, lips curled in what could either be anger or something else entirely.
"Happy now?" she asks, giving me a death glare that doesn't quite reach her eyes.
My lips curve into a satisfied, arrogant smirk. "Very."
She leans down, close enough that I can smell the coconut scent of her sunscreen mingling with chlorine. Her brow arches in a wicked smile as she whispers, "Thanks for giving me proof of your jealousy. I'm thinking of getting it tattooed to make your hickey permanent."
I scowl at her, but deep down, something rushes through me that goes straight to my dick.
I notice sugar crumbs clinging to her lips from whatever snack she grabbed inside, and all my insides scream at me to lick them off. I take a long drag from my cigarette, the smoke burning my lungs less than the desire burning my veins.
Then she straightens up with a knowing smile and saunters away, the shirt swaying against her legs.
Fuck, what kind of sorcery did this little devil do to me?!