The Force of Gravity(34)

“Kaley, please,” he says, grabbing my wrists. “You’re overestimating my self-control.”

I gaze at him. “Don’t you get tired of being so perfectly disciplined all the time? Don’t you ever just want to let go?”

He clenches his jaw, and my gaze falls to his mouth. I miss this mouth. . . . I never thought I’d be this close to it again. He continues to peer down at me, his eyes darkening as I rub my thumb against his scruffy chin.

In one fluid motion, he grabs my waist, pulling me close, and parts my lips with his. He tastes even better than I remember, and my thirst for him deepens. I wrap my arms around his neck, and I’m suddenly very aware of the fact that we’re completely alone. There’s no danger of Derek, or a custodian, or anyone interrupting us this time, and everything I’ve been pushing down the last month comes flooding to the surface. My body is starved for his touch, and I kiss him with a ravenous hunger. He lifts me up, and I lock my legs around his waist. After three quick steps, he slides me on top of the glossy kitchen island and tangles his masterful fingers into my hair, gently tugging it. We claw at each other with an uncontrollable desperation.

I reach down to the hem of his shirt and yank it up.

“Kaley,” he warns, breaking away from my lips.

“No,” I say, abhorring the loss of his kiss. “Don’t you dare do this again.”

“You’ve been drinking. I don’t want to take it too far.”

I smother his protest with my lips. “What did you expect when you lifted me onto your counter top?” I murmur between kisses.

“I know, I’m sorry.” He pulls back for a moment, his gaze flashing to my legs. “You’re just hard to resist,” he says, sliding his hand up my thigh.

“So don’t,” I say, my breaths ragged.

“Kaley, you’re not sober,” he chides, but his words don’t match his actions.

I tug on his shirt. “I’m good, Slate.”

His eyes burn through me, and my dress is forced up higher as he wedges himself farther between my legs, his mouth locking onto mine. We’re in the same position as that fateful study session and a well of emotions spring up inside me. I slip my fingers underneath his shirt and run my hands up his back, greedily exploring the muscles that have teased me all semester.

“I need you,” I whisper.

He pulls back with force. “Don’t say that,” he warns. “I can’t take advantage of you.”

“No, I’m good,” I say, clutching onto him. “Take advantage, please!”

A deep chuckle escapes his throat. “Okay, okay. I have to do the right thing here.” He pries my hands loose and tries to step back, but I tighten my legs around him. “Kaley,” he cautions, but I sense a trace of amusement. “This isn’t easy for me—I am a man. Don’t push it.”

“So, what now?” I say. “You’re just going to make out with me in your kitchen and then make me go home?” I grin as I squeeze his hips between my thighs.

He sighs, brushing the loose hair out of my face. “I should, but you’re making it very difficult to stay away from you.”

“Then don’t stay away from me,” I implore. “You’re all I think about.”

Somewhere underneath the confidence-inducing alcohol, I fear his reaction to my transparency. He lifts my chin, anguish filling his eyes. My stomach clenches, and I brace myself for rejection.

“You have no idea how crazy you’ve made me,” he says, his voice strained. Silence falls over us as he stares at me. “I can’t believe you’re here right now. You took quite a risk, Kay.” He leans forward and brushes his lips against mine, and the last of my coherent thoughts vanish. He nibbles my bottom lip and peers down at me with those warm, intoxicating eyes. A shiver vibrates through my body, and I hear a deep, low laugh against my lips.

“Are you cold, Kaley?” His eyes twinkle with mirth.

I slowly shake my head, and he tilts my chin to the left, grazing his lips down the side of my neck, and the familiar ache rises to a new level. He slides his fingertips across my thighs, goose bumps forming at his touch. With his mouth skimming along my collarbone, his fingers stretch underneath my dress, but stop just before the thin wall of lace.

I inhale sharply. “Just how do you expect me to take it slow when you do things like that?”

“Sorry,” he says, his voice edgy. He lifts his head and gives me a lopsided grin, rendering me senseless in my already intoxicated state.

He pulls away, my body suddenly abandoned and cold. He slides me off the countertop, and the room spins as soon as my weakened legs hit the floor. I can’t tell if it’s because of the alcohol or him—probably a little of both. I follow him back into the living room, but he stops in front of the couch and turns to me.

“Actually, let’s get you out of that dress.”

I perk up and release a wicked grin.

“I mean into something else,” he says, emphasizing his words. “You brought clothes with you, right? I can’t take any more of . . . that.” He gestures to my attire.

“Wait,” I say. “You’re not taking me home?”

He hesitates. “Do you want to go home?”

I struggle to keep his gaze. “That’s your call.”

He rubs his jaw as he regards me, and I watch the conflicting thoughts race behind his eyes. After a while, he exhales, dropping his hand.

“Stay,” he whispers.

Stay!

He lifts a hand in a “stop” gesture, reading my reaction. “I want you to stay, but I’m still not taking advantage of you.”

I nod. “Okay.”

He releases a relaxed grin, and I dissolve into the floor.

“Um . . . can I use your bathroom?” I ask.

“You’re not going to throw up, are you?” he says, horrified.

“No!” I laugh, picking up my bag. “I need a place to change and freshen up . . . unless you want me to change right here,” I say with a mischievous grin.

“Definitely not.” He takes my bag from me and leads me down the hallway. I hesitate when he passes the bathroom and leads me to the end of the hallway, into his bedroom.

“Um, wow. I thought you wanted to take things slow, Mr. Slate,” I jest.

He whips around so fast that I’m forced to step back.

“Don’t do that,” he says in a stern voice. Noting my reaction, he softens. “I’m remodeling that bathroom, so you need to use this one, okay?”

I nod, wide-eyed, and he guides me through the dimly lit master bedroom. I scan the area, spying a large, mahogany-framed bed. Matching nightstands adorn both sides of the bed, and a dresser rests along the wall, a large mirror hanging above it. The walls seem to be painted dark gray, but it’s hard to tell in the soft light spilling from a single lamp on one of the nightstands. His bedding is dark as well, but the bed is turned down, exposing crisp white sheets—he must’ve been getting into bed when I rang his doorbell, and I imagine crawling into that big bed with him. Suddenly, I slam into a hard surface, breaking my reverie.

“Ow!” I cry out, pressing my hand to the side of my face.

Laughter erupts next to me, and I take a step back. Apparently, I walked right into his back when he stopped to turn on the bathroom light.

Real smooth.

“Oh, yeah. You’re sober all right,” he mocks.

“Shut up!” I say, still holding my face and joining him in laughter.

He tries to regain his composure, but his shoulders still shake. “Are you okay?”

“What the hell do you have under that shirt, Slate? Are you made of steel?”

He roars into laughter and leads me inside the bathroom. Bronze light fixtures provide a soft glow that bounces off the rich chestnut walls. The shower is enclosed by spotless glass, showing off the intricate travertine tile work. A large bathtub sits in the corner next to the shower, also surrounded by stone.

“Wow,” I say. “This is beautiful. Did you remodel this one, too?”

He rubs the back of his neck. “Yeah.”

“Quite the handyman, are we?” I take another step inside. “Hmm . . . this tub looks kind of big. Is it made for two?”

He rolls his eyes playfully. “Just hurry and get dressed before I take you up on that. I’ll be in the living room.”

He leaves me alone, and his words echo through my head. Just hearing him tease me about having me in the tub rouses me. And I kind of love seeing him flustered. He’s so cool and collected in class all the time—it’s a nice change when I can throw him off. I brush my teeth and freshen up before taking off my stilettos and slipping out of my dress—there is no way I’m sober, or I’d be hyperventilating right now as I stand naked in Mr. Slate’s bathroom.

Elijah Slate.

Elijah Slate’s bathroom.

I dig through my bag and pull out my bright pink shorts. Insecurity paralyzes me as I lift them up, realizing just how short they really are. This is all I brought with me, though—I can’t exactly sleep in jeans. It’s one thing to plan my sleep attire knowing I’ll be sleeping next to Tommy; it’s a whole other situation with Elijah. Am I seriously spending the night at his house right now? A thrill runs through me, snapping me out of my fear.