Crushed (17 page)

But anyway, this is better.

So much better.

Somewhere between him telling me about his dad and me deciding that he needs me more than I need fireworks, we fell asleep and rolled
toward
each other.

My nose is pressed against his chest, his chin resting on the top of my head.

My hands are crushed between us, one of them sort of smashed between my boobs, the other tangled in the front of his T-shirt.

And his arms? Oh, yeah.
They’re around me.
One’s supporting my head, the other half-crushes me on top, so I’m cuddled—yes, cuddled—by Beefcake.

I should move. For starters, I don’t like Michael like that. Do I? And he definitely doesn’t like me.

Plus, I’m sort of scared he’s here for some sort of Hamlet-esque revenge on his father, who just happens to be . . . wait for it . . . the father of my guy.

Devon.

The one I’ve always loved.

The one that—

Oh,
God,
Michael smells good.

Okay, confession time: Devon Patterson makes me feel all warm and fluttery. He always has.

But Michael St. Claire? Michael makes me feel hot. And, um, okay, a little bit horny. It’s not my fault, really. He’s just one of those guys whose hot stare reminds a girl the exact reason she has lady parts.

So I don’t do what I should. I don’t ease away and chalk it up to proximity and mutual loneliness.

I snuggle closer.

It’s pitch-black in the room, but I don’t think we’ve missed the fireworks. There are still too many party noises from outside, as though the evening hasn’t reached its crescendo yet.

I slowly release his shirt from my fingers, but I don’t pull back. I flatten my hand against his chest. Yup. Pecs are as hard as they look.

His head shifts just slightly, and I feel the way his slight stubble catches in the mess (always a mess) that is my hair, and for some reason the sensation causes a fierce stab of longing to ripple through me.

So
this
is why people have meaningless, no-strings-attached sex. Because guy-to-girl contact
feels
good.

I swallow and let my fingertips trace over the firm planes of his chest, and I wiggle just the tiniest bit closer, half-aware that I’m sort of using the guy, half-aware that the thought of moving away is unthinkable.

I freeze when my squirming brings our lower bodies into contact.

Michael has morning wood.

Or evening wood.

Whatever.

The point is, Michael’s hard, and it should absolutely be a sign that I need to get the hell out of here, but I can’t move.

I don’t want to move.

I want him.

Damn hormones.

My fingers tangle once more in his shirt, and although I want nothing more than to tilt my head up and press my lips to his throat, I take a deep breath and slowly began to ease away from him.

Half the women outside right now either want to use him for sex or already have.

I don’t want to be one of them.

And that’s assuming he’d even want me.

Which he doesn’t.

Because he’s freaking
asleep.

“Sorry,” I whisper, feeling as guilty as I am horny. What the hell is this? Annoying. That’s what it is. And what the hell is wrong with me, loving one guy like I do while feeling all hot about another?

It’s the proximity. And the intimacy of what he shared earlier. That’s it. And, okay, maybe it’s the fact that whatever he has going on underneath his swim trunks seems distractingly impressive.

And just while I’m thinking a lot more about his erection than I should be, he wakes up.

I know he’s awake because I sense it.

His breathing, once slow and even against my hair, stops, then starts again, a little heavier. His arms, which had been draped kind of carelessly around me, tighten almost imperceptibly.

“Hey,” I say to his chest. My arousal is rapidly turning to embarrassment. Sort of.

“Hey.” His voice is husky with sleep. Or something else? Never mind. My arousal is definitely still firmly in place.

His arms move again, I assume to pull away, but then his hands are on my back. Not caressing, quite, just resting there. I can feel the heat of all ten damn fingertips against the thin fabric of my swimsuit cover-up.

My eyes close.

“I should probably go find Kristin,” I say. “Make sure she’s okay.”

Kristin isn’t going to want to talk to me. But I have to say something.

“Yeah,” he says in that rough voice.

But I don’t move. Neither does he, and those damn hands are still hot against my back, his cock (because, I’m sorry, but what else can you call it when it’s nestled against your belly?) still hard and compelling.

Oh my God.

My head tilts up, my eyes finding his, hot and sleepy as they meet mine.

I open my mouth to tell him that I should go. To tell him that I’m sorry my fingers are tangled in his shirt, and that I’ve pressed myself against him, and that I want him just like all those other sex-crazed hussies downstairs, but before I can say any of it . . . Michael kisses me.

Not a “for show” kiss like earlier in the day when he was trying to prove a point.

Not a brother-to-sister
aren’t you so adorable
kind of kiss.

It’s a man-to-woman
I want you
kind of kiss.

Hot, openmouthed, and delicious.

And although my brain is screaming at me that this is a mistake at a million different levels, I kiss him back.

His mouth tastes familiar. And the way we kiss is familiar, too. Like we’ve done it a hundred times, as though we belong here. Belong to each other.

I moan.

So does he.

My fingers tighten on his shirt before creeping up to his neck and his face, and then my arms wind around his neck.

He responds, his arms still wrapped around me. One arm moves up to cup the back of my head, the other moves down to cradle my hips, and he leans into me, rolling me beneath him as his tongue claims mine.

Michael
.

Somehow we’ve gone from a harmless cuddle to a harmless nap to curious touching (okay, that part was just me) to him fully on top of me, cradled between my thighs like he owns them (maybe), our mouths fused so tightly I’m not sure how we’re even breathing.

My fingernails dig into his hair, his in mine, and I don’t want it to stop. Not ever.

The hand on my hip slips downward, over my hip bone before moving back, cupping my butt and pulling me up toward him.

My cover-up has long ago ridden up around my waist, so now it’s just his swim trunks against my bikini bottoms, and it’s both too much and not enough.

Our matching groans are drowned out only by the first
pop pop
of fireworks.

Michael’s head pulls up, and he stares down at me, breathing heavily.

I put a hand over my mouth to stifle my laugh.

“Fireworks?” he says, his voice tortured. “Seriously?”

“Well,” I say around a snicker. “At least it didn’t happen during, you know . . . climax.”

I realize my mistake as soon as I say it. His smile fades and his eyes turn downright stormy as his gaze roams my face and then downward.

“Chloe—”

I put a hand over his mouth. “If you want to stop, just tell me. No BS about not wanting to hurt me, or this not being right, or whatever. Either you want me or you don’t.”

His eyes flick back to mine, but he doesn’t answer.

“Be honest with me,” I say.

“I want you,” he says, the words muffled behind my fingers.

His voice is husky and my heart soars.

“But—”

My heart plummets, and my hand drops.

His eyes go soft, and somehow that’s the worst thing that can happen.

“I’m not Devon.”

My hands reach up, cupping his face. “I know.
I know
. I just . . . I want you. And I want to be wanted. I want to be the kind of girl that guys can’t help themselves around. I want to be irresistible.”

His hand finds my face, the heel of it brushing my cheek as his fingers are touching my crazy hair. “Chloe.”

Then it’s my turn to touch. My fingers roam over his eyebrows, his cheek. His lips. “Please? I won’t ask for anything more than a night to remember. I want a story to tell, Michael. I want at least one crazy thing in my twenties to go with my boring degrees and my Harry Potter obsession. I want to lose myself in someone, in a carnal, dirty kind of way.”

He closes his eyes. “Jesus, Chloe.”

Acting on instinct and hoping to God I’m not getting it wrong, I lift up just slightly to kiss the underside of his jaw.

His fingers tighten in my hair.

I trail my lips along the rough stubble until I find the spot just below his ear. I suck.

“Fuck.”

Encouraged by his increasingly ragged breathing, I start to move my hands over his shoulders, but he moves quickly, his hands finding mine and lifting them over my head, pinning them against the pillow.

“Chloe. No.”

I’m already braced for the embarrassment, so that doesn’t sting too much, but the hurt I feel at his rejection surprises me.

“Yeah,” I say, shaking my head, and hoping the sound of the fireworks drowns out the sound of my pride splintering. “Right. I’m sorry, I should have figured you wouldn’t—”

“Stop,” he says gruffly. “I’m not saying no for the reason you think.”

“How do you know what I think?”

“You’re thinking that I’m stopping because you’re not desirable enough.”

I snort. “Please. I know I’m not your type.”

I’m not anyone’s type.

“Stop,” he says again. “You have no fucking idea how hard it is to have you pinned beneath me right now, to feel your soft curves arching against me and not rip this goddamn dress thing right off of you.”

My thighs clench.
Oh my.

“Then why don’t you?”

He grits his teeth. “Remember when you said you wanted to lose yourself?”

“Yeah?”

His face softens, just the tiniest bit. “Well, I don’t know that I do.”

I wiggle my fingers so I can touch him, but his grip tightens on my wrist.

I settle for forcing a smile. “Is there a gentleman lurking beneath all that medicine?”

His lips twist in a half smile. “I’m not a saint. Not even close. But I’m not going to be that guy.”

“What guy?”

“The one who debauches virgins while her parents are right outside.”

“I’m not a virgin.”

His eyes are warm. “You’re not experienced, either. And you’re not a fling kind of girl.”

True.

But I’d meant what I’d said earlier. I want a story. I don’t want my twenties to be about longing for my sister’s boyfriend who, quite likely, will never want me back. And I don’t want it to be about settling for the Scott Henwicks of the world, who do absolutely nothing to remind me that I’m alive and young.

I want a night to remember.

“Here’s the thing, Michael. . . .”

His eyes seem to darken at my use of his name, and it gives me the courage I need to continue.

“I’m not drunk. I’m not lonely. I’m not desperate. I’m just . . . I want this. I swear I won’t ask anything of you after. I won’t resent being another notch on your bedpost—”

“Wait, what?” he interrupts.

“You know. A notch on your bedpost.”

He shakes his head, not understanding.

“It’s like when guys keep track of their sexual partners.”

“Yeah, that’s not a thing,” he says.

“Fine, but it’s an expression.”

“Not a good one.”

I glare up at him. “You’re ruining the sexy moment.”

“
There
is
no sexy moment.”

I tilt my hips up toward his and he lets out a harsh breath at the contact. “No?” I ask.

“This is a bad idea.”

“Maybe. But I’m overdue for a bad decision,” I say, nudging him again.

“Yeah, but I’m not.”

Eeesh, who knew that a guy could be so damn rational and talkative when a scantily clad girl is beneath him?

“Okay, I’m done begging, St. Claire,” I snap. “Either put your hands on me or get off.”

His jaw shifts slightly as though he’s clenching his teeth.

I lift an eyebrow in challenge.

The room is silent save for the steady pop of fireworks and the occasional enthusiastic
ooooooh
from the crowd outside.

“My ardor is cooling,” I say finally, when it becomes clear he’s not going to make his move.

He slowly releases my wrists, and I look away so he can’t see my face. Can’t read the hurt.

I should have known better. Michael St. Claire could have anyone.

Why the hell would he want chubby, goofy Chloe?

He shifts to his side, freeing me, and I start to scramble off the bed, but he stops me by grabbing his wrist. I turn to meet his gaze, and his eyes are urgent, as though trying to tell me something.

I shake my head, just barely, indicating I don’t understand.

“I can’t, Chloe.”

I give a harsh laugh. “You seem to manage just fine with everyone else.”

He pinches the bridge of his nose and closes his eyes. “Damn it!”

I tug my hand away and scoot off the bed, tugging my cover-up back down around my thighs, grateful it’s dark so he can’t see what sort of unimpressive doughy-ness he just passed on.

“It’s cool, Beefcake. Don’t worry about it.”

I’m reaching for the doorknob when he speaks. “I’ve tried being someone’s second choice.”

I frown and pause, although I don’t turn around. Can’t.

His voice is raspy, and so quiet that I barely hear what he says next. “I can’t do it again.”

The good part of me—the part that is his friend—wants to turn back and ask what he means.

But for the first time in my life, the part of me that doesn’t just want to be Chloe-the-friend is talking louder.

Michael might be sick of being “second choice.” But the rejected-woman part of me?

She’s
tired of being the platonic sidekick.

Chapter 19

Michael

Weeks later, it’s like that whole weird thing with me and Chloe on the Fourth of July never happened.

Almost.

I still see her three times a week for personal training sessions.