I really should stop him. I know I should.
And then his tongue finds mine once more, slow and insidious, making the whole world fall away aside from the pressure of him against me and the dark, consuming thing inside me.
This changes everything, I think to myself. You can’t convince someone to like you, but to ignore a few misguided convictions? That’s a battle I can fight.
His hands leave my hair, roll down my back until they rest at my hips once more and then he pulls me against him, where I can tell with absolute certainty that one part of his anatomy is ready to see this through to the end.
But he doesn’t know what he’s doing. And this isn’t the choice he would make sober. I pull away.
“Come on, James. You’re drunk.” I tug him again and this time he follows me to his room.
I pull the covers down, but as he falls backward he pulls me with him, and we are in the air, and we are landing, me on top, unable to remember why I really shouldn’t be here. My breath stutters to a halt as his fingers run along my jawbone, his eyes fixed on mine, half-question and half-plea.
It’s another moment of weakness on my part, a split second of hesitation that gives him the opening he needs.
He threads his hands through my hair. “You’re so beautiful, Elle,” he whispers. “You’re so fucking beautiful it hurts to be around you.” He pulls my head toward his. His mouth is firm and pliant at once, his hands cradling my head above him. I will pull away in a minute, I swear to myself, but God this is a good kiss. I never want it to end.
He flips me so that I am under him, so that he is pressed between my legs, and the moment I feel him there I begin to forget about stopping. “I want to do so many things to you I don’t even know where to start,” he says hoarsely.
He finds my mouth again, catching my breathy whimpers as he continues to press against me. The kiss is different than before. There’s something dark and desperate about it, something that seems to wipe away thought. I respond, allow myself to fall into the heat of it, to arch into his roaming hands and to thrill at the pained noise he makes as I do so. His hand slides over the outside of my t-shirt, cups my breast. He uses his thumb against it and even through all the layers of fabric manages to draw my nipple into a hard point that he captures between his teeth. I breathe his name out on a gasp, and the hem of my shirt begins to rise. I hear my own shaky inhale as his fingers brush my skin, his teeth still moving against me while his hand climbs past my rib cage. Once we’re undressed there will be no stopping this. There is no natural end point but one, and he will hate me tomorrow if I let that happen.
“James, stop,” I whisper, arching against him even as I say it. I’ve never wanted anything to continue so badly in my life.
He stills, but remains above me, coiled with tension.
“Not like this,” I whisper. “Not when you’re drunk.”
He looks surprised for only a moment before his face falls in horror. “Oh, fuck,” he hisses, rolling off me like I’m on fire.
“James, it’s okay,” I whisper. He’s face down beside me.
“No, it’s not okay,” he says. “I’m so fucking sorry.”
“Don’t be sorry,” I plead. “I want this. I just don’t want you to be drunk when it happens.”
“It can’t happen,” he says. “It will never happen. You’ve got to leave.”
“Because of my age?” I scoff. “Is that seriously what this is about?”
“Yes,” he says. “I’ve fucked up so many things. But this tops all of them.”
“That’s ridiculous. We’re only six years apart.”
He groans. “God you’re not helping.” He turns toward me, brushing my hair behind my ear, his hand sliding back around my neck, with that same pained look on his face I’ve seen so often, but never this close. “You’ve got to go,” he says. “Before I do anything else.”
“James, you didn’t do anything wrong,” I insist.
His eyes flicker to my mouth and his hand tightens in my hair. For a second I feel certain that he’s going to kiss me, but instead he releases me entirely.
“Please,” he says. When I don’t move his eyes narrow, and his tone grows dangerous. “Now, Elle.”
My pulse drums quickly, a breathless moment where I consider defying him, where I consider bridging the distance, forcing him to see me as an adult no matter how badly he doesn’t want to. My desire and his thicken the air between us.
Pushing away and leaving him is one of the hardest things I’ve ever done. I should be proud of myself, but really I feel nothing but regret.
Chapter 29
I wake the next morning torn between ebullience and shame. The things he said would mean something if they were really true. But were they?
I’m clinging to an event he probably won’t even remember. One I shouldn’t have allowed to happen at all.
Max and I are sitting at the kitchen table when James emerges from his room, walking out in nothing but a pair of workout shorts. Despite my guilt, I look at him shirtless and feel like I got cheated. He at least could have had the shirt off. He glances at me and averts his eyes, which tells me everything I need to know. He remembers, and he’s pissed.
Max laughs. “You look pretty rough, dude.”
“No shit,” he says, walking toward the coffee. “How many shots did we do?”
“I lost count at 15,” says Max. “What happened to you anyway? I look away for one minute and you’re gone.”
“That band sucked,” James grumbles, turning away to pour his coffee.
“You were in a weird mood all night,” replies Max.
James ignores him. He comes to the table and stops beside me. “Can I talk to you?” he asks, his voice low and unhappy.
“Sure,” I murmur. Max raises a brow to me with a look that says ‘you are in so much trouble’. Like I didn’t already know.
I follow James to the deck and he sits, placing his head in his hands. I’d expected anger, not shame, and it leaves me uncertain how to proceed.
“Last night,” he says, raising his head just enough to look at me sideways. “Did we … ?”
“Did we … ?” I ask. I want to know what he remembers. I’m not going to give all the info up this easily.
“Did we sleep together?” he asks hoarsely, sounding horrified by the prospect. He could be asking if we’d really dismembered a body in the woods last night and his voice wouldn’t hold more dread.
“No,” I say tersely. “And you don’t need to make it sound like that would be the worst thing you’ve ever done.”
“It would be,” he snaps. “It would hands-down be the worst thing I’ve ever done.”
I know he doesn’t mean that to be as insulting as it sounds, and yet I can’t seem to stop my reaction. I’m not sure if I want to hit him or cry. Maybe both.
“You know what?” I rasp, feeling tears on the way and knowing I need to make a fast exit. “Fuck you.”
I rise to go but he stops me.
“Elle,” he says. “It’s not that. Just wait, because you’re taking that all wrong.” He stops to gather his thoughts. “It’s not that I don’t want to. If my memory of last night is correct, it was pretty clear I wanted to. You’re just too young. That’s why it would be wrong. Not for any other reason.”