Chapter Eight The Almost
Senior year
Eli wasn't drunk enough for this. But was too drunk in general.
He leaned against the wall near the stairs, nursing a another cold beer and trying not to watch her.
Claire Bennet. Laughing. Spinning. Letting some guy pour her a shot with a hand too low on her waist. She wore that black dress—the one that looked like it had been sewn to her skin—and she looked too damn good in it. Like a dare.
Eli watched her tilt her head back and laugh at something that asshole said, and something hot twisted in his gut.
He didn't even know the guy. Didn't care. What pissed him off was how easy she made it look—how easily she smiled for someone else.
His fists clenched.
He moved towards them.
"Claire."
She turned at the sound of his voice, a little breathless, a little too tipsy. Her eyes lit up like they always did when she saw him, and god, it made it worse.
"Hey!" she said, pushing a strand of hair behind her ear. "Didn't know you were still here."
"Yeah," he said flatly. "Hard to miss when you're practically giving lap dances to a finance major in the kitchen."
Her face fell. "What the hell?"
"Nothing." He shook his head and turned away, jaw tight. "Forget it."
She followed him anyway, grabbing his arm as he moved toward the hallway. "No, seriously. What's your problem?"
He stopped walking.
"You," he said. "You're my problem."
Her eyes widened.
And then they were outside the frat house.
"I don't get you," she said, voice low, frustrated. "You act like this every time someone so much as looks at me. What do you want from me?"
"I don't want to fucking want you," he yelled. "Okay?"
"Then don't."
"Too late."
And then he kissed her.
Rough. Hungry. Four years of tension, buried and boiling, all of it crashing into the space between them. Her back hit the building wall, and she pulled him with her like she'd been waiting for this—for him—just as long.
His mouth moved to her neck, tasting salt and tequila and her. She moaned, low and broken, her hands fisting in his shirt. One leg wrapped around his waist, and he pressed in, grinding hard enough to make her gasp again.
"Eli," she whispered, dragging his name out like a secret.
They stumbled toward to the entrance of her dorm building and to the stairs. He grabbed her hand—no words—and she followed, breathless.
Her dorm room was a blur. The second the door clicked shut, she shoved him against it and kissed him like it was the last time.
He walked her back until she bumped against her desk. Papers scattered to the floor. They didn't care. He lifted her up onto the surface, shoved her legs apart, and stepped between them.
Her dress bunched at her thighs, and his hands were everywhere—her hips, her waist, the swell of her breasts. She gasped as he kissed down her chest, pulling one strap off her shoulder with his teeth.
"God, Claire," he breathed, eyes wild. "You have no idea how long I've wanted to do this."
She pulled his shirt off, tossing it blindly aside. Her nails dragged down his chest. "Then do it."
Her hand dipped between them, fingers trailing along the waistband of his jeans until they fell off, leaving him in his underwear. Without waiting too long, Claire sent her hand inside his underwear—his whole body jerked.
"Claire—"
She stroked him, hungrily and lusty. His breath stuttered. He kissed her again, desperate and sloppy and hot.
He pressed himself closer to her.
"Tell me to stop," he said, voice wrecked. "Please. Tell me before I can't."
But she didn't.
Claire kept touching him, enjoying his reaction she was feeling.
And that's when he stopped.
Hands flat on her thighs. Breathing hard. Eyes squeezed shut like it physically hurt to pull away.
"Fuck," he said, shaking his head. "I can't."
Her brows furrowed, breath catching in her throat. "What?"
He stepped back slowly, his hands still hovering like he couldn't bear to let go completely.
Claire slid off the desk slowly. She looked at him, and he looked ruined.
"I don't want this to be a regret," he said quietly.
But it was too late.
They both knew it.
Claire fixed her dress, her face unreadable. "You should go."
Eli nodded, his mouth a flat line. He grabbed his shirt off the floor and left without another word.
The door clicked shut.
Claire kept standing there, still aching.
Not from what happened.
From what almost did.