I cleared my throat. “It’s hot.” I tried to pull away, but his grasp on my hip intensified. His other hand settled, gentle but firm, on my bare thigh. I sucked in a breath and held it, waiting for some sense to be knocked back into me.
“Chloe,” he said with the same huskiness in his voice. He let his head fall forward onto my breast. The warmth of his exhale spread across my skin. I tried to swallow, but the lump in my throat prevented it. My hands raised of their own accord. I laced my fingers through his hair. He pulled back slightly and looked into my eyes. “Chloe,” he said again. He removed his hand from my thigh and curled it around my neck, pulling me down to his waiting mouth.
I let out the breath.
Game. Over.
But he didn’t kiss me. He just kept pulling me down, farther and farther, until he was lying on the bed, and I was on top of him. He moved the strap of my dress off my shoulder with his teeth. I let my head drop into the crook of his neck. Then his lips were on my shoulder, skimming the skin lightly, moving so slowly, up to my neck. His tongue darted out, leaving a trail of wetness behind. Then his mouth was on my jaw. Soft. Slow. His fingers tangled in my hair, and he pulled slightly until I lifted my head, and we were face-to-face. He rubbed his nose across mine, then pulled my bottom lip between his teeth. I moaned, breaking the silence that filled the room. He didn’t stop with the small, torturous kisses. Not until, finally, his tongue swept between my lips.
My teeth clamped shut. My breath caught. I was scared. I was so frickin’ scared of what it meant to have him there, doing what we were doing.
“Please let me kiss you,” he begged.
And I couldn’t stop myself. The moment my mouth parted for him, he was there. His tongue brushed against mine. But it was different. I’d made out with guys in the past, but never sober. It wasn’t just that, though. He was different. He wasn’t at all what I’d imagined. His kisses were slow and passionate, yet controlling. He demanded so much attention, from his kiss alone, that I forgot who I was. Who he was. And who we were together. I couldn’t bring myself to fight him anymore. I let my body relax into his.
“Holy shit,” he moaned into my mouth, deepening the kiss. He thrust up. Just once. But enough that I could feel his hardness pressed against my stomach. He pulled back quickly, searching my eyes. Contemplating. Then just as fast, he flipped us over so I was on my back, and he was on top of me. “I’m losing control,” he mumbled.
My chest rose and fell with every short breath. I was gasping, trying to level my breathing. But he kissed me again, and I knew I was losing control, too. He shifted onto his side but never stopped kissing me. His hand lay flat on my stomach, the heat of it matching the heat between my legs. And then it moved. Lower, until it settled on my thigh, past the hem of my dress.
He pulled away, allowing us both to catch our breaths. “You’re so beautiful, Chloe,” he whispered. My eyes drifted shut. He kissed my lips once. Then his hand moved higher. I felt the material of my dress slipping upwards. “I want you so damn bad.”
I parted my legs. I wanted him, too. I wanted him everywhere. His mouth moved to my neck, sucking lightly, while his hand moved higher until it was where I wanted it. His single finger brushed the space between my legs, over my panties. I knew I was wet. He moaned into my skin—he knew it, too. His mouth sucked harder while his fingers pushed the material aside. The cold air hit my wetness. Then a single finger slid up, and then painfully, slowly, down. My body tingled all over. I’d never experienced this before. Not when I was sober. A clear head magnified the intensity of what I was feeling. Not just physically. Then I felt his finger slide slowly inside me. My back arched off the bed. I refused to open my eyes when I felt the throbbing ache begin.
His lips moved up to mine. “Chloe,” he said against them.
I panted in response. Then he paused and pulled away. “I’m sorry, Chloe,” he whispered.
My eyes snapped open. “What?”
“I can’t . . . I need to break up with Hannah before—”
Then a door opened downstairs. It sounded far away, but it wasn’t.
I forced myself to look away, trying to compose myself. The footsteps on the stairs got louder.
“Shit!” I pushed him away, stood up, and adjusted my dress. He did the same, adjusting his hard-on trapped in his jeans.
“Hey, Blake, come shoot some baskets,” Sammy said from my doorway.
Blake opened his mouth to speak, but I did it for him. “Blake needs to go home now,” I said. “Say good-bye, Sammy.”
“Five minutes?” he begged, his eyes pleading.
I inhaled deeply. “I’m sorry, Sammy, but Blake’s leaving now. I’ll come out in a bit and play, okay?”
“Okay.” His footsteps faded as he walked back down the stairs.
“Chloe.” Blake reached out, but I pulled away, taking a step back.
“This is exactly what I didn’t want.”
“Chloe,” he repeated, quieter this time. “What are you talking about?”
“You and me . . . us . . . This can’t be a thing.” I pushed back my sob before speaking. “I can’t be what you want, Blake. I’m sorry. Can you just leave? Please?”
I could tell he didn’t want to go, but he turned and left without another word.
I watched him get into his car from my window, with tears streaming down my face. It was too much. I never should have let him get so close. Now he was willing to change his life for me, and I couldn’t do the same for him. No matter how much I wanted to.