Chapter Three #3
Skylar doesn’t let go of my arm, and I don’t pull away.
I allow his warmth to seep into my skin; I allow myself to enjoy it.
In the morning, I can blame it on the liquor and poor judgment, the same way I have every other time we’ve gotten wasted and I’ve let myself stare at him for a moment too long.
“I… we still have a few minutes,” Skylar says, hand squeezing my skin.
“Okay.” The word leaves me as a quiet surrender, something scared and startled.
“What’s up with you?” he asks. “Hm? You’re acting different.”
As I gather the courage to look at him, his eyes seem to be pleading—asking me a question I cannot decipher. I can feel his breath on my face from where he stands; I can smell the alcohol.
“I don’t know.” I can’t seem to speak above this whisper, as if there is a spell that will break if I do.
I watch his jaw as it clenches and unclenches; I see the muscles of his arm flex under the tension of his hold. He seems to be debating something—an internal battle of sorts.
“Do you… Do you want to kiss me?” Skylar forces the question out, as if there is a panic inside of it. As if he is terrified I’ll say yes, yet equally terrified that I’ll say no.
And I am terrified that he has read me so easily.
I want to scream. I want to hit him. I want to shove my tongue against his.
It’s bad—bad news all around. Even as I am drunk, I know this simple fact. Will I ever get this chance again? Probably not. So I should definitely say no—if I say no now, he’ll never gather the confidence to ask again.
But I’m a fucking idiot—a horrible masochist—and he looks so pretty tonight, so I say, “Yes.”
It’s breathless; a shameful admission.
“Okay.” Skylar swallows, audible and timid. Those big eyes blink up at me so wide and curious. “Then do it.”
It’s suddenly quiet once more; neither of us moves. We’re staring at each other in a whirlwind of desire and what borders on pain but feels more like terror.
Then, slowly and so incredibly carefully, I wrap my fingers around the back of his neck, pulling him toward me.
He comes without a fight, his body pliant and docile beneath my palm. Every ticking second that he nears me, that I watch those eyes slowly close and feel his breathing pick up, I feel as if I’m wound tighter and tighter.
It’s as if something will snap—as if some part of this world will combust in a loud and violent explosion the second he reaches me.
Yet, as his lips touch mine, it feels like I’m finally breathing. As if I’ve been holding my breath since birth and only now have I tasted fresh air. It’s sweet and soft, traveling straight down my throat and into the pit of my stomach.
I’m hungry, I realize. I’m fucking starving for what he tastes like if he only opens his mouth. But I’m so scared I’ll startle him if I push too far. If I ask for too much.
I feel a tentative hand land on my chest, light and hesitant with its touch. Skylar pulls away and takes an unsteady breath.
“Everett,” he whispers, eyes still firmly shut as I stare down at him in awe. His face is so perfectly flushed, lips slightly swollen. “Do that again.”
He’s not begging—he’s demanding.
Skylar Parish does not beg.
I have never seen a sight so erotic.
My mouth crashes into his, and this time it’s angry with our desire; I feed him my hunger. This kiss is devastating, lighting me up from the inside out. And as he gasps, opening his mouth for me, I get my first real taste of him.
So fucking sweet. My grip on him tightens so impossibly tighter, my free hand landing on his hip and pulling him flush against me. I soak up the feel of his smooth skin, the rush of his blood through his veins.
The curve of Skylar’s waist is so delicate, yet so strong—a perfect paradox. I want to drag my tongue over it; I want to tell him how fucking sweet he tastes.
Our kiss is turning into a brutal fight for dominance as each moment passes. As we stand here, arguing with our bodies, I try to breathe around how right this feels—and how fucked up that is.
How unfair is it that something so wrong can be so perfect?
“You taste so good,” I tell him, moving my lips to his jaw, feeling the hot tears building behind my closed eyelids. “So fucking sweet on my tongue.”
Skylar groans, pushing further into me.
There is a banging against the door, so loud that I jump, pulling away from Skylar completely. We stare at each other, our shock meeting somewhere in the middle as we once again become aware of our surroundings and who we are—what the fuck we’re doing.
“Time is up, lovebirds!” Kelly yells. “Let’s play cards!”
We listen to her retreating footsteps that are eventually drowned out by the music I am just now registering again, and Skylar clears his throat.
“I’ll, uh, see you out there. I’m going to grab some pants.” He slips past me, most likely to run to his bedroom.
As he does, I notice that he’s intentionally angling himself away from me. But it doesn’t matter—I see it anyway. There is a tent in his briefs.
Fuck.
I fucked up, and unfortunately, I am far too drunk and far too horny to care. I want more.
Fuck you, Kelly.
As I defeatedly make my way back to the living room, a loop of Skylar’s sweet groans fills my mind.