6. Nash
NASH
AGE NINETEEN
My hands shake as I unlock the door to Mom's apartment. She's pulling extra shifts at the hospital this week, won't be back until morning. Perfect timing, except nothing about this feels perfect. It feels like I'm about to combust.
I didn't go looking for Eve to do this. Not that I don't want to.
Hell, I've wanted so much from her—fantasized so much about her—since that one kiss.
But I knew better than to ever think I could have it.
And then she basically shouts she needs to get laid and offer like an idiot.
I certainly didn't think she'd take me up on that offer.
I thought I'd get to see her for a bit, rile her up, and then come home to sulk.
The night has definitely taken a turn, but I'm not sure how to even process it.
Not as I step into the apartment and Eve follows me inside, her boots echoing against the hardwood.
The familiar scent of vanilla candles and coffee grounds fills the space, but all I can focus on is her presence behind me—warm and electric and completely messing with my head.
"You want something to drink?" I turn around, trying to buy myself a second to think. "Water? Coffee? I think there's some?—"
"Where's your bedroom?"
The question slices through my words. Direct. No-nonsense. So unlike the Eve I remember, the one who gently smiled when I so much as looked at her sideways.
I point down the hallway. "Last door on the right."
She nods once, sharp and determined, then marches past me like she's heading into battle. I follow, because what else am I going to do? Let her storm my childhood bedroom alone?
By the time I reach the doorway, she's already kicked off her boots and shrugged out of her jacket. The sight of her in my space—surrounded by my old basketball trophies and the Columbia pennant I hung up last summer—makes something primal twist in my chest.
I close the door behind me, the soft click echoing louder than it should.
"What's the rush, sweetheart?"
She pauses, hands frozen on the hem of her sweater. Her shoulders lift in a shrug that's trying too hard to be casual. "Isn't this what you wanted? What you offered?"
There's something brittle in her voice, like she's holding herself together by sheer will. It makes me want to slow everything down, figure out what's really going on behind those warm brown eyes.
I cross the room slowly, giving her time to tell me to stop. She doesn't. When I reach her, I cup her face in my hands, thumbs brushing across her cheekbones. Her skin is soft as silk, warm despite the cold air we just escaped from.
"I want to savor you, sweetheart."
The words come out rougher than I intended, but they're true.
God, they're so fucking true. I've been thinking about this—about her—for longer than I care to admit.
Every girl I kissed in high school, every girl that's come up to me in Columbia but it never went anywhere because I couldn't stop comparing them to a memory of Eve Turner looking up at me with fire in her eyes.
I can barely stomach another woman's touch thinking about her. Some days I think it will rip me apart, wanting her and knowing I will never have her.
But I do for tonight.
I lean in and kiss her, slow and deep, the way I should have that night at the bonfire when we were kids. No anger this time. No stupid pride getting in the way. Just her lips against mine, soft and perfect and exactly what I've been craving.
She melts into me like she's been waiting for this too, her hands fisting in my shirt, pulling me closer. The small sound she makes in the back of her throat nearly undoes me completely.
When we break apart, her eyes are glazed, pupils blown wide. Beautiful. She's so damn beautiful it hurts to look at her.
I guide her backward until her knees hit the edge of my bed, then ease her down onto the mattress. The sight of her there, hair spread across my pillow, looking up at me with those eyes—it's better than any fantasy I've tortured myself with.
Her hands find the hem of my shirt, tugging upward.
I let her pull it over my head, watching her gaze travel across my chest. She traces one finger along the ink on my ribs—a delicate vine of forget-me-nots that wraps around my side.
The flower that grows wild behind her house.
The one she used to pick and tuck behind her ear when we were kids.
She doesn't know. She can't know what it means.
"When did you get this?" Her voice is barely a whisper.
"Back in August." I don't tell her it was after a particularly brutal night of missing home. Missing her. "You like it?"
Instead of answering, she reaches for the button of her jeans. I cover her hands with mine, stilling them.
"Let me."
I work the button free slowly, then the zipper, my knuckles brushing against the soft skin of her stomach. She lifts her hips so I can slide the denim down her legs, taking my time, memorizing every inch of skin I uncover.
Her sweater comes next, revealing a simple white bra that somehow manages to be the sexiest thing I've ever seen. Because it's Eve. Because she's here, in my bed, looking at me like I'm something worth having.
My eyes roam over her, taking in the curve of her waist, the smooth expanse of her stomach, the way her chest rises and falls with each breath.
"You look so fucking good," I murmur, my voice coming out rougher than gravel. "Like the damn angel you are."
She rolls her eyes, but she’s trying to hide a smile. "I'm not the goody two-shoes you've always made me out to be."
Something dark and pleased unfurls in my chest. I settle onto the bed beside her, propping myself up on one elbow so I can look down at her properly.
"Oh no?" I let my grin turn wicked. "So you're not going to be a good girl for me then?"
The effect is immediate. Her pupils dilate further, and she bites down on her lower lip in a way that makes me want to do the same. There's heat in her eyes now, something that matches the fire I've always seen simmering beneath her perfect exterior.
"I didn't know you had it in you, sweetheart." I trace one finger along her collarbone, watching goosebumps rise in its wake. "All this time I thought you were just sweet little Eve Turner from down the street."
"Maybe you don't know me as well as you think you do."
"Maybe I don't." I shift, settling between her thighs, my hands coming to rest on either side of her hips. "Guess I'll have to find out."
She tenses slightly as I push her legs apart, her hands gripping the comforter.
"What are you doing?"
The question comes out breathless, uncertain. It reminds me that despite all her bravado, Eve's still the girl who was stunned when I kissed her at that bonfire. Still the girl who probably has no idea how beautiful she is, how much she affects me.
I lean down and press a soft kiss to the inside of her knee, then another higher up her thigh. Her breath hitches.
"Something I should have done a long time ago."
I pray to God I don't fuck this is up now that I have. But I've never gone down on a girl when I know there's only one I want to taste. I'm skilled enough with my fingers, but with Eve, I want everything.
I hook my fingers in the waistband of her panties, giving her time to stop me. She doesn't. She lifts her hips instead, helping me slide them down her legs until there's nothing between us but air and anticipation.
The first touch of my tongue against her makes her cry out, her back arching off the bed. I go slow, learning the taste of her, the sounds she makes when I find the right spot. Her hands tangle in my hair, tugging in a way that sends heat straight through me.
"Nash," she breathes, and the way she says my name—like a prayer, like a curse—makes me want to spend hours between her thighs.
I add a finger, then another, working her slowly while my tongue circles that sweet spot that makes her writhe beneath me.
She's responsive, grinding against my mouth like she can't help herself, and the sight of her losing control is the hottest thing I've ever witnessed.
I don't need experience when I have motivation like that.
Her thighs start to tremble around my head, and I can feel her getting close, her breathing coming in short pants. I want to watch her fall apart. Want to be the one who gives this to her.
"That's it, sweetheart," I murmur against her skin. "Let go for me."
She shatters beneath me with a cry that's half my name, half something incoherent and beautiful. Her body bows off the bed, thighs clamping around my head as she rides out the waves. I work her through it, gentling my touch as she comes down, pressing soft kisses to her inner thighs.
When the tremors finally subside, I kiss my way back up her body, taking my time.
The curve of her hip, the dip of her waist, the space between her ribs where I can feel her heart hammering.
Her skin is a gorgeous dark sheen, hair wild against my pillow, looking like she's been thoroughly worshipped.
Because she has been.
"You're such a good girl," I murmur against her throat, meaning every word. "So fucking perfect for me."
Her eyes flutter open, hazy and satisfied, and she reaches for me with hands that still shake slightly. When she pulls me down for a kiss, she moans at the taste, and the intimacy of it makes my chest tight.
Her fingers find the button of my jeans, fumbling with the zipper.
I want to help her, want to speed this along before I lose my mind completely, but there's something about watching her hands work that keeps me still.
The concentration on her face, the way she bites her lip when the zipper catches.