Chapter 24 #2
"I was young," I say, quieter now but no less firm. "And scared. And grieving. And you felt like my forever when I couldn't even survive the day. I wanted you so badly it terrified me."
The silence that follows is thick and volatile.
His eyes close. Just for a second.
When they open, the restraint is gone.
"I'm done pretending," he breathes. "That I still don't want you. That I ever fucking stopped."
He lurches forward, his hand fists in my wet shirt and pulls before I can even think.
His mouth claims mine with force, with memory, with everything he's been holding back since the moment he walked away from me on that porch. I gasp into it, the sound swallowed by him as he presses closer, body solid and unyielding.
It feels like coming home.
And like lighting a match.
My back hits the stacked hay, rough against my shoulders. His hands are on me immediately—one gripping my hip hard enough to bruise, the other sliding up my ribs, dragging my wet shirt with it.
I arch into him without thinking. Need it. Need his hands on my skin, not just through fabric.
He makes a sound low in his throat when I pull at his shirt, yanking it up. My palms find bare skin—stomach, ribs, the hard plane of his chest. Hot despite the rain. Solid. Real.
His mouth leaves mine just long enough to bite out, "Fuck, Hazel—"
Then he's kissing me again, harder, tongue sliding against mine in a rhythm that makes my knees go weak. His thigh pushes between mine, firm pressure exactly where I need it, and I gasp against his mouth.
"Yes," I breathe, not caring how desperate it sounds.
His hand slides higher, thumb brushing the underside of my breast through my bra. Testing. Waiting for me to stop him.
I don't.
I grab his wrist and press his palm flat against me, showing him exactly what I want.
He groans—rough, broken—and his hand tightens, thumb dragging across my nipple through the thin fabric. The friction sends heat straight down my spine, pools liquid and insistent between my thighs.
I rock against his leg, can't help it, and his other hand drops to my ass, pulling me harder against him.
"Hazel." My name is a warning. Or a prayer. Maybe both.
His mouth moves to my jaw, my throat, teeth scraping just enough to make me shiver. My head tips back against the hay, giving him access, and his tongue traces the line of my pulse.
I'm burning. Wet shirt, cold air, and I'm burning alive.
I should stop this.
The thought flashes bright and urgent. I should tell him I can't promise anything. That I'm still deciding. That in a few weeks I might leave and break him all over again.
But I don't want to stop.
I want him. Want this. Even if it's selfish. Even if it makes everything harder.
My hands find his belt. Fumble with the buckle. I need—I don't even know what I need except that it's him, now, here, before either of us can think better of it.
He catches my wrist. Pins it against the hay above my head.
"Wait," he breathes against my collarbone.
"No." I use my free hand to pull his face back to mine, kiss him hard enough to hurt. "Don't wait. Don't think. Just—"
His control snaps.
Both hands are on me now, shoving my shirt higher, baring my stomach, my ribs. His mouth follows the path his hands made, hot and wet and deliberate. He kisses the hollow beneath my ribs. The soft swell above my bra. His teeth catch the edge of the fabric and I stop breathing.
"Eli—"
He looks up at me then, eyes dark and blown, lips swollen, asking the question without words.
I nod.
His hand moves to the clasp at my back. Flicks it open with practiced ease. The straps slide down my shoulders and he pulls the bra away, tosses it somewhere in the hay.
For a second, he just looks. His chest heaves. His hands flex at his sides like he's memorizing this, storing it away.
Then his mouth is on me.
I cry out, can't help it, the sound swallowed by the storm. His tongue circles my nipple, his hand kneading the other breast, and I'm shaking, grinding against his thigh like I can find relief there.
I can't.
"Please," I hear myself say. "Eli, please—"
He kisses his way back up to my mouth, one hand still working my breast, the other sliding down my stomach. His fingers hook into the waistband of my jeans.
"Tell me to stop," he says, voice wrecked.
"Don't you dare."
The button pops free. Zipper slides down. The sound is obscene in the quiet between ragged breaths and rain hammering the roof.
His fingers slip just inside, not far, just enough to trace the edge of my underwear. Just enough to make me whimper. My hips cant forward, begging without words.
"Fuck," he breathes. "You're—"
His hand slides lower, palm cupping me through thin cotton. I'm soaked. Not from the rain.
He feels it. Groans like it costs him something.
"Hazel, we—" He's trying to think. To be reasonable. "We can't—"
"We can," I gasp, reaching for his belt again, getting it open this time. "We are."
His hand moves against me, heel of his palm grinding slow and deliberate. I'm going to come apart. Right here. Like this.
My hand slides into his jeans, finds him —
"ELI!"
Chace's voice cuts through everything, sharp and urgent, like a bucket of cold water.
Eli freezes.
His hand stills against me. His forehead drops to my shoulder. His breath comes in harsh pants against my bare skin.
For half a second, I think he won't stop. That he'll choose this instead. That he'll damn the consequences and take the last step.
"Fuck," he swears against my skin. Low. Broken.
Then he pulls back hard, like ripping free costs him something physical.
His hands leave me. He drags them through his hair, water flying. He won't look at me. Can't.
"Eli!" Chace yells again, closer now. "We've got a problem out here!"
The colt shifts, startled by the raised voices, and I reach for the lead on instinct, trying to ground myself in something solid as my pulse pounds everywhere.
Eli turns toward the door, rain already blowing in around the edges. He pauses with his hand on the latch, shoulders tight, head bowed like he's fighting a war inside himself.
"Stay with him," he says, voice rough. Commanding. Necessary.
Then he's gone.
The door slams open and the storm swallows him whole.
Rain rushes in, cold and sharp, breaking the spell even as my body still hums with it. I stand there shaking, breath uneven, chest bare, jeans unbuttoned, lips burning like a brand.
I fumble for my bra with trembling hands. Pull it on. Button my jeans. Pull my shirt on. Try to breathe.
My body is screaming. Frustrated. Aching. Empty.
I can still feel the ghost of his hand between my thighs. The pressure. The promise of more.
I press my forehead against the colt's neck and swallow the sound that wants to break free.
We were thirty seconds away from—
I don't let myself finish the thought.
Nothing is resolved.
Everything is exposed.
I know, with absolute certainty, that we've crossed a line we can't uncross—and that whatever comes next is going to demand more than either of us is ready to give.