Chapter 32
ELIJAH
The top of Spirit Mountain stretches before us, a white canvas spotted with colorful figures carving their way down the slopes. I glance at Sam beside me, decked out in her all-pink ski outfit that makes her look like some kind of winter Barbie—but in the best possible way. Her goggles match the rest of her getup, and despite myself, I find it stupidly endearing.
All around us, people laugh and shout as they shoot down the hill on skis and tubes, their voices carried away by the crisp Duluth wind. Sam takes it all in, her eyes wandering from the skiers to the breathtaking view of snow-covered pines, and I can't help but watch her instead of the scenery.
"So," she says, turning slowly in a circle to take everything in, "this is your grand romantic master plan?"
I smirk, cocking a brow at her. "What? Not impressed?"
She tilts her head, studying the slope, the skiers flying down like human missiles. "I just didn't peg you for the 'let's risk our lives on a mountain' type of date."
"That's exactly the type of date I'd plan."
There's something in her eyes I can't quite read.
And I'm already second-guessing it.
Maybe this was stupid. Maybe this is too intense for her. Too outdoorsy. One wrong move sends her tumbling fifty yards down packed ice.
"You don't like it," I say, more defensive than I mean to be. Fucking idiot. Of course she hates it.
But then—Sam's entire face transforms. Her lips curl into this smile that's so bright it's almost blinding against the white snow around us. Her eyes crinkle at the corners, and I swear to God, it's like someone turned on a spotlight from within her.
"Are you kidding me?" she says, her voice rising with genuine excitement. "This is amazing, Eli! I've always wanted to try skiing!" She spins around, taking in the vista with outstretched arms, snowflakes beginning to dust her pink shoulders.
My chest does something weird, like it's expanding and contracting at the same time. I want to touch her face, trace the curve of her jaw, feel if her skin is as warm as it looks despite the cold. She's so fucking radiant it almost hurts to look at her directly—like staring at the sun.
Jesus Christ, I'm turning into a poet or some shit. Hockey players don't think like this.
"Good," I manage, my voice coming out softer than I intended. "That's... good."
I almost want to smack myself in the head again—this time for nearly ruining everything before we even started. I've been a walking contradiction all day, a total mess of a human being who can't make up his mind about anything.
First, I showed up two hours late to our meeting spot. Two. Fucking. Hours. Because I kept pacing my hotel room having what felt like ten different arguments with myself.
You can't go on this date.
But you promised her.
So what? Since when do you care about keeping promises to some girl?
She's not just some girl.
That's exactly the problem.
Eventually, the thought of how shitty it would be to cancel on the same day won out. I'd given her my word, and my granddad always said that's one thing you don't break, no matter what. So I dragged my ass to meet her, but even then I couldn't stop sabotaging everything.
Every time she tried to make conversation in the car, I'd grunt one-word answers or stare out the window. When she suggested going to this art exhibit in town, I made some dismissive comment about preferring to be outside. I was being a total dick, and I knew it. The plan was simple: act uninterested and bored enough that she'd cut the day short, and we could go our separate ways. Mission accomplished—I'd never have to deal with these confusing feelings again.
And it worked. After two hours of my bullshit, she finally had enough. I saw it happen—this flash of hurt in her eyes that she tried to cover with a brave face.
When she turned to leave, something inside me fucking snapped.
It was like watching someone walk away with a vital organ I hadn't known I needed until that moment. This wave of panic crashed over me, the kind I've only felt once before—when I was six and lost my mom in a department store for ten minutes.
Pure, primal fear.
Now, watching her twirl in the falling snow, I'm determined to make it up to her. We've got a few hours before our flight back to Miami at seven, and I want every single one of them to be filled with her sunshine smile and those crimson cheeks she gets whenever I flirt with her.
Not that I'm actually flirting with her. I'm just staying in character as her fake boyfriend for the day. Or so I keep telling myself.
The snow starts coming down harder now, light flurries dancing around us like we're in one of those cheesy snow globes. Sam tilts her face up to the sky, her mouth slightly open in wonder, snowflakes landing on her eyelashes and melting on her lips. I swallow hard.
"It's so beautiful," she whispers.
"Here," I say, stepping closer and adjusting her goggles that have slipped down slightly. My gloved fingers brush against her cheek, and even through the fabric, I can feel the warmth of her skin. "You ready for your first skiing lesson?"
She nods so enthusiastically that I can't help but laugh. She looks so fucking cute with her nose already turning pink from the cold, excitement radiating from her like heat.
"Alright, first rule of skiing," I say, stepping behind her and placing my hands on her hips to position her properly. "It's all about balance." My mouth is suddenly dry, and I'm hyper-aware of how close we're standing, how perfectly she fits against me.
"Like this?" she asks, shifting her weight between her feet.
"Almost." I adjust her stance slightly, my hands lingering longer than necessary. "You want your weight centered, knees bent a little." I demonstrate, and she mimics me, giggling when she wobbles.
"I'm going to fall on my ass, aren't I?"
"Probably," I admit with a grin. "Everyone does their first time. But I'll be right there to pick you up."
I spend the next half hour teaching her the basics on the bunny slope—how to snowplow to stop, how to turn, how to get up when she inevitably falls. And she does fall, a lot, but she laughs every single time, a sound that echoes around the mountain and settles somewhere deep in my chest.
When she finally makes it down the beginners' slope without falling, she throws her arms around me in celebration, nearly knocking us both over. I catch her, my arms wrapping around her waist, and for a moment we just stand there, breathing hard, clouds of vapor mingling between us.
"I did it!" she exclaims, and her face is so close I can see every detail—the flecks of darker gray in her silver eyes, the slight unevenness of her smile, the constellation of freckles across her nose that I've never noticed before.
"You did," I say, and my voice comes out rough. I clear my throat and step back, breaking whatever spell had momentarily fallen over us. "Ready to try again?"
We spend the next three hours exploring everything Spirit Mountain has to offer. We graduate from the bunny slope to a slightly more challenging run. We try tubing, racing each other down the hill and trash-talking the entire way. We build a pathetic excuse for a snowman that looks more like a snow blob with sticks poking out.
The whole time, I keep waiting for the moment when I'll get bored or annoyed or remember all the reasons why I shouldn't be here—but it never comes.
Instead, I find myself loosening up, genuinely having fun for the first time in... hell, I can't even remember the last time. With every hour that passes, every laugh we share, every casual touch, it feels less and less like I'm pretending.
Exhausted from our afternoon on the slopes, we retreat to the warmth of the lodge. I watch Sam blow into her gloved hands, her breath creating little puffs of fog in the cold air. She wiggles her fingers dramatically, then shoots me an exaggerated pout.
"My fingers are literally dying right now," she whines, but there's that playful sparkle in her eyes that makes my chest do weird things. "I swear to God, Eli, I can't feel my pinky. Is frostbite, like, a real concern? Because I'm pretty sure my future as a hand model is being threatened as we speak."
I laugh, pulling her hands into mine. Even through the layers of our gloves, I can feel the cold radiating from her fingertips. "How about some hot chocolate? That should warm you up."
"Ugh, yes please!" She tilts her head back in exaggerated relief. "You're actually a lifesaver. My fingers were about to straight-up abandon ship and, like, find someone else's hands to live on."
"I'll be right back," I say, already standing up from our bench near the window. "Don't let any of your body parts emigrate while I'm gone."
"No promises!" she calls after me, wiggling her fingers in a little wave that's way more adorable than it has any right to be.
The lodge at Spirit Mountain has that perfect winter retreat vibe—high ceilings with exposed wooden beams, the smell of pine and cinnamon hanging in the air, and the crackling of the massive stone fireplace fighting against the constant opening and closing of doors. I navigate through clusters of people in bulky ski gear, their faces flushed from exertion or cold or both.
At the counter, I order two hot chocolates, watching as the barista tops them with generous swirls of whipped cream. The woman next to me orders some complicated coffee concoction with about fifteen specifications, and I find myself thinking about how Sam would've made some witty comment about it if she were standing here.
I pay and thank the barista, carefully picking up both steaming cups and turning back toward our bench. From halfway across the lodge, I spot Sam's white hat, but she's not alone. She's leaning forward, making the most ridiculous cross-eyed expression I've ever seen at a little boy who can't be more than four or five. The kid explodes into giggles, and Sam follows with an exaggerated pouty fish face that sets him off again.
I slow my pace, not wanting to interrupt. There's something captivating about watching her like this, uninhibited and unaware of being observed. Her whole face transforms when she laughs—not the careful, measured laugh she sometimes uses when she's nervous, but this full-body thing that crinkles her eyes and scrunches her nose.
The little boy attempts to mimic her fish face, his cheeks puffed out comically, and Sam clutches her heart like it's the cutest thing she's ever seen. It might be the cutest thing I've ever seen, and I'm not even directly involved.
"Tyler! Time to go, buddy!" A woman in a red ski jacket waves from a few yards away, and the boy turns.
"Bye, funny lady!" he calls to Sam, racing off toward his mother.
Sam's gaze follows them, and there's something in her expression—a softness, a longing maybe—that makes my chest ache. I've never seen that particular look on her face before.
I make my approach, clearing my throat so I don't startle her. "One hot chocolate delivery for the funny lady."
She turns to me with a start, her cheeks flushed—from the cold or maybe from being caught in that moment, I'm not sure. "My hero!" She reaches for the cup, her fingers brushing against mine. That tiny contact sends a ridiculous flutter through my stomach. "Did you see my amazing fish face? I'm pretty sure I missed my calling as a children's party entertainer."
I settle beside her on the bench, our shoulders touching. The contact feels both casual and significant. "I did. You were a hit. The kid was eating it up."
"Tyler," she says, smiling into her hot chocolate. "He told me he's four and three-quarters and that skiing is his 'absolute favorite thing in the whole universe.' Kids that age have such specific measurements of time and, like, the most dramatic opinions about everything." She takes a sip, leaving a tiny dot of whipped cream on her upper lip that she doesn't notice. "I respect that energy."
I reach over without thinking and wipe the cream away with my thumb. Her eyes widen slightly, but she doesn't pull back. "Yeah, I could tell you were vibing with him."
"Vibing with a four-year-old. This is what my life has come to," she laughs, but there's a warmth to it.
We sit in comfortable silence, drinking our hot chocolate and watching the activity beyond the floor-to-ceiling windows. Spirit Mountain is alive with motion—skiers carving paths down the slopes, snowboarders launching off jumps, beginners wobbling uncertainly on the bunny hill. The late afternoon sun casts long shadows across the snow, turning it from bright white to soft gold.
Sam's attention fixes on something, and I follow her gaze. It's Tyler again, with who I assume are his parents. The father is massive, maybe a former football player, lifting the little boy onto his shoulders. They're both on a single snowboard, the man carefully balancing as he makes small, shuffling movements to simulate skiing. The mother watches them, phone raised to capture the moment, her laughter visible even from here. The kid throws his arms out like he's king of the mountain.
Sam's smile hasn't faded.
If anything, it's grown.
It's disarming in its genuineness.
"What are you thinking about right now?" I ask softly, not wanting to break whatever spell she's under.
She doesn't look away from the family when she answers, her voice taking on a dreamy quality I've never heard before. "I can't help but dream about us having our own family someday. Like, I can totally see you playing with our little kid out there, teaching him how to ski." She sighs, her breath fogging the window slightly. "It would be so adorable, and I'd totally film it. I'd be that embarrassing mom with her phone out every five seconds"
As if suddenly hearing her own words, she sits bolt upright, turning to me with wide, mortified eyes.
"Oh my God. I just totally went full crazy girl on you, didn't I?" She covers her face with her hands, the tips of her ears turning bright red. "I'm so sorry I keep doing this. I promised myself I wouldn't do this again—spinning these ridiculous daydreams when we're just... you know. This isn't even real, and here I am—"
I gently pull her hands away from her face, keeping them clasped in mine. Her embarrassment is endearing, and surprisingly, her fantasy doesn't scare me.
Maybe it should, but it doesn't.
"It's okay," I tell her, my voice coming out lower than I intended. "That's what couples do, right? Imagine futures?" I squeeze her hands. "So tell me, what does our imaginary family look like?"
The transformation is instant—like someone switched on a light inside her. Her entire face brightens, eyes wide and eager. "Are you sure? Because I don't want to freak you out with my elaborate daydreams that may or may not include a Golden Retriever named Pancake."
I laugh. "I'm sure. And Pancake is a great dog name."
She shifts on the bench to face me more fully, our knees touching. "Okay, so we'd get married right after I finish college..." Her voice catches slightly, and I notice a strange sheen in her eyes, like tears threatening to form. She blinks rapidly and continues, her voice slightly too bright. "We'd have a small wedding. Nothing fancy, just the people who matter."
I wonder about that momentary break in her voice, that flicker of something in her eyes, but she's already moving on, and I don't want to interrupt.
"Then we'd have two kids," she continues. "A boy first, then a girl."
"Why a boy first?" I ask, genuinely curious.
"Because," she says, taking another sip of her hot chocolate, "I always loved having a big brother. There's just something about how protective they are with their little sisters. I want our daughter to have that. Someone who walks her to class and threatens any boy who looks at her wrong."
"Plus," she adds, poking my chest, "your hockey genes are strong, and our son would need time to perfect his skills before teaching his little sister all his tricks."
"So our son would play hockey?" I ask, finding myself drawn deeper into this fantasy world she's creating.
"Abso-freaking-lutely!" She sits up straighter, animated now. "We would be at all your home games—the kids wearing tiny Deveraux jerseys with 'Daddy' on the back because that's, like, the cutest thing ever. Your personal cheerleading squad." She waves her hands in a mock cheer. "We'd make signs and everything. The embarrassing kind that make you pretend not to know us."
I laugh at the image, but something warm unfurls in my chest. The thought of having people—my own family—in the stands specifically for me feels like a luxury I've never allowed myself to imagine.
"The away games would be trickier," she continues, tapping her chin thoughtfully. "School nights are non-negotiable, so we'd have to skip those, but maybe we could road trip for the big ones? Turn it into a family adventure?"
"I like that," I say quietly, surprised by how much I mean it.
She beams at me. "And our son would be just like you—natural athlete, total hockey star—"
"Actually," I interrupt, "I think our son might be more like you."
She tilts her head. "What do you mean?"
"I can see him being artistic. Having your eye for beauty, your creativity." I think about the sketchbook she always carries, how her hands are constantly in motion, creating something from nothing. "He'll roll his eyes at hockey and say it's 'overrated.'"
Her expression softens. "And what about our daughter?"
"Oh, she'd definitely be the hockey player," I say confidently. "She'd have your sass and my competitive streak. Deadly combination."
Sam laughs, throwing her head back. "God help her coaches."
"God help everyone," I agree. "But she'd be amazing. They both would."
Sam leans her head on my shoulder, and we watch the family outside again. They're packing up now, the little boy looking tired but happy as his father zips up his coat.
"They'd come to your games," she says quietly, almost to herself. "And you'd teach them to skate as soon as they could walk. Our apartment would be covered in crayon masterpieces and hockey gear. Total chaos."
I find myself picturing it all—the stands filled with people who came just for me. Not teammates. Not coaches. Not sports agents.
A family. My family.
I haven't had that in a long time. My parents stopped showing up years ago—too busy fighting, too busy rebuilding separate lives. Game days became something I walked into alone.
But in her version of the future, I'm not alone.
I feel warmth bloom in my chest, and it's not from the hot chocolate. It's from the picture she's painting in my head.
A wife. Kids. Cheers from the stands. Little Deveraux jerseys. A daughter tugging at my arm asking for another spin on the ice.
I didn't know I wanted that and now I can't stop seeing it.
And for the first time in a long time, the idea of a real family doesn't feel like something other people get to have. It feels like something I might actually deserve.
With her.
"You know what's weird?" I say, watching my breath fog the window. "I can actually see it. All of it."
She looks up at me, her expression vulnerable. "Yeah?"
"Yeah." I turn to meet her eyes. "It doesn't feel crazy when you talk about it. It feels... possible."
She smiles, but there's something bittersweet in it that I can't quite read. She takes my hand again, tracing patterns on my palm with her finger. "Well, just so you know, in this fantasy, you're an amazing dad. Like, the kind who builds snow forts and reads bedtime stories with different voices for all the characters."
"And you're the mom who makes funny faces at breakfast to get them to eat their vegetables."
"Excuse you, I would never stoop to such tactics," she says with mock offense. "I would obviously bribe them with dessert like a respectable parent."
I laugh, pulling her closer against the cold.
The sun begins its descent, painting the snow in shades of gold and orange, and I feel a heaviness settle in my chest. Our day is coming to an end. Tomorrow we'll be back in Miami, back to our normal lives, and this—whatever this is—will be over.
"We should probably head back," I say reluctantly, watching her face for her reaction. "Don't want to miss our flight."
"Yeah," she agrees, but she doesn't move, just keeps looking out at the mountain like she's trying to memorize it. Or maybe she's feeling the same reluctance I am.
We return our rental gear and make our way back to the car. The snowfall has picked up significantly, fat flakes coming down in sheets now, covering the windshield faster than the wipers can clear it. I drive carefully, hyper-aware of the precious cargo in my passenger seat.
We're about five minutes into the drive when Sam's phone pings with an email notification. She fishes it out of her pocket, the screen illuminating her face in the dimming light.
"Oh no," she says, looking up at me with wide eyes. "Our flight's been canceled due to severe weather." She turns the phone so I can glance at it—JetBlue Flight 2187 to Miami: CANCELED.
"Fuck," I mutter, tightening my grip on the steering wheel. This complicates things. I checked out of my hotel this morning, figuring I'd go straight to the airport after our date. My teammates took my luggage with them when they left this morning. "Where are you staying tonight?"
"That's the thing—I checked out too. My stuff is in the trunk."
We drive in silence for a moment, both of us trying to figure out our next move. The snow is coming down harder now, visibility decreasing by the minute. Just as I'm about to suggest turning back toward town to find a hotel, I spot a sign partially covered in snow: "Mountain View Cabins - Vacancies."
It's a small collection of private rental cabins tucked slightly off the mountain road—the kind of place skiers use for weekend stays. Given how bad the weather's getting, I don't want to risk driving much further.
"What do you think?" I ask, nodding toward the sign.
Sam bites her lip, considering. "Worth a shot."
I turn onto the narrow drive leading to the cabins. The main office is a rustic log building with smoke curling from the chimney. Inside, it's warm and smells like cinnamon and pine.
The woman at the front desk looks up as we enter, snow dusting our shoulders and hair. "Hell of a storm out there," she comments. "Looking for a place to wait it out?"
"Our flight got canceled," Sam explains. "Do you have any cabins available for tonight?"
The woman checks her computer, clicking through a few screens. "You're in luck. We've got one cabin left—Aspen Lodge. It's one of our nicer ones. Private deck, outdoor hot tub." She hesitates, looking between us. "It does only have one bed, though it's a king size."
I feel my face heat up and refuse to look at Sam. "That's fine," I say quickly, pulling out my credit card before Sam can offer to pay. "We'll take it."
After checking in, the woman leads us through the snow to our cabin. It's at the edge of the property, partially secluded by pine trees now heavy with snow. She unlocks the door and shows us inside, where thankfully the heater is already running, making the space warm and inviting.
"Kitchen's fully stocked if you want to cook," she explains. "Bathroom's through there. Hot tub controls are on the wall by the deck door. Any questions?"
We shake our heads, and once she leaves, an awkward silence falls between us. The cabin really is beautiful—all exposed wood beams and rustic furnishings. A stone fireplace dominates one wall, already set with logs. The kitchen is small but modern, and a plush sofa faces a large window with a view of the falling snow. And then there's the bed—a massive king size with a mountain of pillows that takes up most of the bedroom area.
"I can take the couch," I offer immediately, shoving my hands in my pockets.
"Don't be ridiculous," Sam says, but she's not looking at me either. "That bed is big enough for both of us to sleep without even knowing the other person is there."
The thought of sharing a bed with Sam sends a jolt of heat through me that has nothing to do with the cabin's temperature. I need to get away from her, just for a minute, just to collect myself.
"I'm gonna hit the bathroom," I mutter, practically fleeing across the cabin.
Once inside, I lean against the sink and stare at my reflection in the mirror. "Get your shit together, man," I whisper to myself. "It's just one night. In a remote cabin. With a fucking hot tub. And a king-sized bed. And Sam."
I splash cold water on my face. "You're not going to do anything stupid." I point sternly at my reflection. "You hear me? Nothing. Stupid."
My reflection looks unconvinced.
"Okay, so she looks hot in that white winter coat. So what? And yeah, maybe when she smiles it feels like getting checked into the boards, but in a good way. And sure, when you carried her after she fell that last time, she felt perfect in your arms, and she smelled like lavender and snow and—" I groan, dropping my head into my hands. "You're so fucked, dude."
I don't know how long I stay in there having my mental breakdown, but when I finally emerge, the room is quiet. Sam is curled up on the sofa, fast asleep, still in her clothes but with her boots off.
She looks so small and vulnerable like this, her face relaxed, lips slightly parted. The sight does something to my chest that feels dangerously close to tenderness.
Carefully, I approach the couch and slide one arm under her knees, the other behind her back. She stirs slightly as I lift her but doesn't wake, just nuzzles her face into my chest in a way that makes my heart stutter.
I carry her to the bed and lay her down gently, pulling the covers over her. For a moment, I just stand there, watching her sleep. My fingers move of their own accord to brush a strand of hair from her face, lingering on her cheek.
"What the hell am I doing?" I whisper to myself, pulling my hand back like I've been burned.
I need to cool off.
The hot tub outside suddenly seems like a great idea—the cold air might help clear my head. I realize I don't have proper swim trunks with me—my luggage is with my teammates. No matter. I strip down to my boxers, which will have to serve as makeshift swim shorts, and slide open the glass door to the deck.
The hot tub is already bubbling, steam rising into the snowy night. I hiss as the cold air hits my skin before quickly submerging myself in the hot water.
"Fuuuuck," I groan as the heat envelops me, instantly soothing my aching muscles. Two hockey games in the last two nights plus today's exertion at the ski resort have left me more sore than I realized.
I rest my head back against the edge of the tub, watching the snow fall through the steam. A cigarette seems like the perfect complement to this moment, so I reach for the pack I stashed in my discarded jeans, lighting one and taking a deep drag. The smoke mingles with the steam in the cold air.
As much as I hate to admit it, today was perfect.
Not just good, not just better-than-expected, but genuinely perfect.
I've never been on a real date before—hook-ups, sure, but never something like this—and I never expected it to feel this... right. Being with Sam is easy in a way that nothing else in my life has ever been.
I don't notice that I've dozed off until the sound of the deck door sliding open startles me awake. My eyes land first on bare feet with pink-painted toenails standing on the wooden deck, then travel upward—toned calves, the hem of a white bathrobe, and finally Sam's face, her hair now pulled up into a messy bun, a few tendrils framing her face.
She smiles, that shy, fuck-me-like-you-mean-it smile, and my dick twitches before she even moves. Her fingers—those long, fucking elegant fingers—go to the tie of her robe, and I swear to God, she's moving in slow motion just to torture me. The knot comes undone, and the robe slips off her shoulders, pooling at her feet like it's too fucking weak to cling to her goddess-level body any longer.
Holy fucking shit.
She's in a black bikini, and I'm pretty sure Satan himself designed it to test my willpower. The top cups her tits like it was made for them, the fabric straining just enough to show the curves of her nipples pressing against it. Her cleavage is a goddamn masterpiece, deep enough to drown in, and my mouth goes dry as a desert.
My cock surges to attention, hard and aching, and I shift in the water, grateful for the bubbles hiding my fucking erection. But I'm not fooling anyone, least of all her. Her silver eyes meet mine, and they're fucking smoldering, like she knows exactly what she's doing to me.
She walks toward the hot tub with a confidence I haven't seen from her before. My eyes are glued to her, tracing every damn curve and my skin feels like it's on fire.
She steps into the tub, and the water ripples around her, clinging to her skin like it's jealous it can't get closer. She sinks down across from me, and the steam rises between us, making the whole scene feel like a fucking wet dream. She leans back, and the water makes her skin glisten, catching the light like she's dipped in gold. A droplet trails down her neck, and I watch it slip between her breasts, my dick throbbing like it's got a fucking heartbeat.
"I thought you were sleeping," I manage to croak out, my voice rough and strained.
"I was, for a bit," she says, her voice soft but dripping with fucking temptation. "I woke up looking for you and saw you out here. Thought I might join you." She shifts slightly, and water laps against my thighs, sending sparks of heat straight to my cock. "Hope that's okay."
Okay? Fuck no, it's not okay. It's fucking dangerous. Her sitting there, half-naked, her nipples pebbling against the wet fabric of her bikini top, her legs parted just enough to give me a glimpse of paradise—it's a goddamn test I'm destined to fail.
She moves through the water toward me, and I press back against the edge of the tub. If she gets any closer, I'm going to lose what little self-control I have left. Her lavender scent surrounds me, intoxicating and fucking maddening, and I'm acutely aware of how easy it would be to reach out and touch her. To pull her onto my lap and grind her pussy against my dick until we're both fucking screaming.
"What are you doing?"
She pauses, her eyes searching mine, and for a moment, the confidence falters, replaced by uncertainty. "I know I said I wouldn't ask for that third favor if you went out with me today, but..." She bites her lower lip, and my eyes fixate on that fucking movement, imagining my teeth doing the same. "If it's okay with you, I'd like to cash it in now."
Her cheeks flush a deep red, and she looks up at me through her lashes, her silver eyes wide and fucking pleading. "I want you to be my first," she says finally, the words soft but heavy with meaning.
For a moment, I'm frozen, my brain short-circuiting. Her first? Fuck. I can't. I won't. But the way she's looking at me—it's fucking impossible to think straight.
"What? No, I ca... can't. You can't ask me that, Sam," I stammer, my voice harsher than I intended, but the shock of her request has thrown me. My cock, however, doesn't care about morals or logic—it's throbbing, begging me to give in, to bury myself inside her and claim her completely.
But I can't. Not like this.
"Why not? Is... is there something wrong with me? Am I that repulsive?"
"Fuck! No, that's not what I meant at all," I say quickly, running a hand through my wet hair. "Sam, you're—" Beautiful. Perfect. Everything I've ever wanted."—not repulsive. At all. It's just... this is a big deal."
"The date was one thing," I continue, struggling to explain myself without hurting her more. "But taking your virginity? That's... that's huge, Sam. It's not something you should just give away."
"So, you think I'm being reckless?"
"No, that's not—" I sigh, frustrated with my inability to express what I mean. "It's special, okay? Your first time should be with someone who... who deserves it." The words taste bitter on my tongue, and a tightness grips my chest at the thought of her with someone else.
"Don't I get to choose who deserves it?" she asks, her eyes meeting mine with an intensity that makes my breath catch. "It's my body, my decision."
"Of course it is, but—"
"And I choose you," she says simply. "It's important to me, and it would be more meaningful if it were with you."
I close my eyes, trying to gather my thoughts. Part of me—a very large, very insistent part—wants nothing more than to pull her onto my lap right now and give her exactly what she's asking for. Maybe this is what I need—maybe sleeping with her will finally get her out of my system, end this torture of wanting something I can't have.
But another part of me knows that's bullshit. If anything, being with Sam like that would only make things worse, make me want her more.
"You should save it for someone special," I say finally, opening my eyes to look at her. "Someone who's in love with you, who has genuine feelings for you."
"And you don't?" she challenges, moving closer again, her knee brushing against mine underwater.
The question hits me like a body check I didn't see coming, leaving me winded. Do I have feelings for her? The very idea terrifies me, but I can't deny the way my heart races when she's near, how I've thought about her constantly since we met, how today felt like the most right thing I've ever experienced.
"That's not the point," I deflect, my voice rough. "The point is that you deserve better than some hookup in a hot tub."
"That's not what this would be," she insists, reaching out to touch my face. Her fingers are warm and soft against my cheek, and I have to fight not to lean into her touch. "This would be us, together, making a memory I'd treasure forever. One last time."
Her words slip past my defenses, warming me from the inside out. I'm caught in a war between desire and what I think is right. I want her—God, I want her more than I've ever wanted anyone—but taking what she's offering feels like crossing a line I can't uncross.
Yet the thought of someone else being her first, someone else touching her, kissing her, making her moan—it drives me fucking insane. A primal part of me screams that she's mine, that what she's offering belongs to me and no one else.
"Sam, I..." My voice trails off as she moves even closer, her body now just inches from mine. I could count each of her eyelashes, see the flecks of darker silver in her eyes.
"Please, Eli," she whispers, and the sound of my name on her lips nearly breaks me. "I want it to be you. Only you."
I'm balanced on a knife's edge, torn between doing what feels right and what I've convinced myself is right. One wrong move and I'll fall—but which way, I'm no longer sure.
I squeeze my eyes shut, gathering every scrap of willpower I possess. "Sam, I can't." The words feel like stones in my throat.
When she finally meets my gaze, her smile is small and broken. "I'm sorry I keep pushing... Some habits are hard to break, huh?" Her voice wavers. "Just... pretend this never happened, okay? I thought—" She swallows hard. "you'd want me the way I've always wanted you."
She rises from the water, rivulets streaming down curves I've dreamed about for so many nights. Something in me fractures at the sight.
"Fuck it!" My hands are on her in an instant, gripping her hips and pulling her onto my lap, her thighs straddling mine. Her gasp is swallowed by my lips as I crush my mouth against hers.