Page 50 of Bloom

“Stand up straight. You’ve got to help me here. I can’t do this by myself.”

“I don’t want you to help me,” he argues.

“You’re being ridiculous,” I say. “Come on.”

“Elle,” he grumbles. “I’m trying so hard … just don’t.”

“Trying so hard to do what?” I huff in exasperation, as I continue to tug him toward his room. “Because you’re sure not trying to walk.”

He leans sideways against the wall and closes his eyes. “You,” he says. “Trying to stay away from you.”

My heart is pounding thick and sluggish in my ears, and suddenly I am no more capable of propelling him forward than he is. “Why?”

He pulls me into him, his hands at my hips, resting his forehead against mine. “I can’t even think when you’re in the same room,” he sighs. “I want you so much I can’t even think.”

That airborne feeling I had when Max suggested James might like me? It’s nothing compared to this. This is a wave slamming into me so hard and so fast I don’t even have time to brace myself.

“You said you didn’t like me in that way,” I breathe.

He closes his eyes. “I lied,” he says quietly. “I don’t want to think about you that way because you’re too fucking young. But I do.”

His hands move to my face, long fingers resting against my jaw and cheekbones, holding me steady while his head lowers.

I should stop him. He has no idea what he’s doing. I should stop him.

He leans in and finds my mouth, softly at first. A sweet, unhurried kiss, his tongue opening my lips, his hands sliding back into my hair.

“God I love your mouth,” he groans. He sucks at my lower lip, wrenching a gasp from my throat that surprises even me.

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.