Chapter Twenty-One [Liam]

WARNING: this chapter may contain more mature content

*this chapter also contains multimedia relevant to the plot*

I tap on the left side of my screen to go back to the story I just watched.

Once again, a burly, blonde hockey player pops a bottle of champagne open while Trey Coleman films with the frontal camera of his phone, his shiny-eyed beaming face half-visible on the side. But I'm not focused on Coleman, nor his teammate. My eyes zero in farther into the background of the video, where Eli can be seen laughing with his friends.

I keep going through my Instagram stories. A lot of the most recent ones are from hockey players celebrating their final victory in the recreational center, which Trey Coleman's dad rented for the team tonight.

Mack is also down there. She texted me to come and I said no. Then she texted the group chat. Nat said she had to study, Gus said he was busy re-watching Call Me By Your Name, but Chloe said yes. Mack then texted me, saying Chloe has officially overthrown me as her coolest friend. So I texted Chloe to congratulate her on the promotion and she replied with a single awfully rude emoji.

The truth is I really don't want to go to the hockey team's celebrations. Even if Mack and Chloe are going.

Sure, one particular hockey player I am especially partial to would be there, but so would his whole team. And I learned rather quickly that the Eli Blake I like — the one that kisses the breath out of me between rows of lockers in the Ice Arenas' locker rooms — is not the the same guy who sits with the Brunson Grizzly Bears at lunch in the cafeteria. And he's probably not the Eli Blake I would find out and about tonight.

Still, I can't help myself. I pick up my phone and pull out the texting app. I type. Stop. Read it through. Hesitate. Then send.

I am surprised at how quickly the reply comes.

That brings a smile to my face. Because shit. That's not a sober text.

The little typing bubble pops up immediately and I sit up straighter against the mahogany headboard. The bubble disappears and I frown, but then it's there again and almost instantly another text.

That nerve-wrecking bubble shows up again for half a second before it's gone. I hold my breath, but it doesn't come again. I roll my eyes and drop my phone. Way to be an idiot, Astor.

I shimmer down the bed, pressing a pillow to my face. Maybe I should have just gone to the stupid victory party. Eli was at Gus's party in October and I managed to get him away. Into this very room. Maybe he'd let himself be coaxed again.

The honest, irresistible truth is that Eli Blake doesn't actually need much coaxing. And I would be lying to myself if I said I have much control over whatever we are doing anyeay. It's all on Eli's terms. He might be perfectly pliable and willing when we're alone, but he's the one who decides if and when, where and how, we are alone. And if I wasn't so into the thrill of it all I might care a little more.

A knock on my door throws me off. I stand up from the bed, expecting maybe a wayward Mack, having drunkenly split from the party.

Drunk and wayward is right. But it's not Mack.

"Hey," I muse, pleasantly surprised.

Eli smiles. Carelessly, easily — drunkly.

"Was I supposed to be expecting you?" I ask, feeling a smile creep onto my lips as well.

"Didn't wanna tell you I was coming," he says, promptly inviting himself right in.

I close the door. "Why not?"

A gasp escapes me as he steps right into my personal space. "Didn' want you telling me not to."

"Now, why would I do that?"

In truth, I could offer up a few potential answers myself. Like the fact Eli is clearly drunk. I could smell liquor on his breath even before his lips were pressed an inch from my face.

Without warning, his mouth collides with mine and whatever train of thought I had boarding at the station vanishes into steam and smoke. And collide is in fact the right word. His lips move sloppily against mine, teeth clashing, tongues meeting wetly. It shouldn't turn me on so much, but my brain turns to mush. All rational objections regarding sober consent previously forming in my brain are gone. Because Eli is a really good kisser, even when he's bad.

And he might be getting better with practice.

My back hits the wall behind me, after a light shove. Eli's hands come up to cup my face and he steadies the kiss. It's still rushed and fiercely intense, but not quite as messy.

Definitely getting better with practice.

"How's that hot tub of yours?" Eli whispers against the underside of my jaw.

"Hot," I reply, as he mouths down my neck.

Eli pulls back to shrug off his jacket, grinning at me suggestively. And if the heat in his eyes makes something between my legs stir to life, the glossy shine in them sends a tiny red flag in my head into a frenzied wave.

"You're drunk," I state.

"Only a little."

I laugh. "More than a little."

Eli rolls his eyes, but he's still smiling. I don't think he ever smiles this much when he's sober. "I swear I only had, like... a few drinks."

I narrow my eyes at him, shaking my head. "Looks like you had more than that."

"I was going to," he starts, stepping up to slide both hands around my hips. "But then I didn't. He kisses me right where my jaw connects with my ear.

"Why not?" I murmur breathlessly.

"'Cause I came here instead."

"How are those two options mutually exclusive?" I ask, but he kisses my neck instead of providing an answer.

It's pathetic. Honestly.

Because I don't want him to stop.

I should be able to resist, make sure he's not too drunk for this. That's the protocol, right? Consent and whatnot. Jesus, my parents talk about this all the time. Logan, my older and wiser sister — as only she likes likes to herself — gives me a talk about it every time she visits home.

Except this is different. Right? Because Eli is the one throwing himself at me.

Ugh.

The problem here is I can't fucking think with Eli's tongue inside my mouth, in the messiest, most addictive kiss I have ever experienced. I melt back into the wall, sliding my hands down his chest.

He takes my ear lobe between his teeth in a playful nimble and whispers close to my ear, "Take me outside."

"It's cold," I reply meekly.

"You'll keep me warm," he shoots back, in an echo of the shitty line I tried with him last time we were in this room.

It didn't work with him that night, so it shouldn't work on me tonight.

"I promise I'll sober up a bit, soon as we're in the hot tub," Eli murmurs against my cheek, before dropling one open-mouthed kiss.

"I'm not sure you will."

He licks along my ear shell. "I will."

"Fuck."

And that's how he knows he's won.

How did I go from sitting alone on my bed, like a sad lonely lump, watching other people have fun not five minutes away from me, to pulling a more-than-willing Eli Blake by the hand to my outdoors hot tub? I definitely had a dream like this before. Not the sad lonely lump thing, the hot tub part.

I take a second to watch as he pulls off his sweater and t-shirt in a single go, because that was undoubtedly part of my dream. And I am pleased to find I definitely got most of the details right in my sleep too.

Broad shoulders, check. Pale golden skin, check. Toned chest, check. Shadow of a six back at the core of a strong torso, check.

Standing basically at the same height, where I am lean and flexible, I'm happy to see Eli is solid and hardened. With a bulkier built, I can still trace the lines of the muscles underneath, but it's not the magazine-ready abs of a model who works out to look good only. It's the kind of body you get from playing a rough sport at high-performance levels during your developmental years.

His lips curl deviously as he makes quick work of his fly.

"You're just gonna stare all night or you joining?" He taunts, toeing off his shoes.

Joining. Decidedly. Without question.

I purse my lips as I remove my own sweater, because it really is cold. Eli doesn't seem to mind it, though.

Because he was drinking, an annoying voice in my head chides.

This is good, though. The cold could sober him up, for sure. Right?

That thought fades into a pathetic hiccup in my brain as Eli slips his underwear off along with his jeans. This was in my dream too. Except it's much better live. Because even with the cold, Eli seems really happy to be here. About... forty-five percent happy to be here.

It's strange to think that I've been fooling around with this guy for months, and this is the first time I've seen him fully naked.

I get a full view of his backside as well as he steps into the hot tub, before he sinks down to the water. Hazel-grey eyes stare up at me. "Gonna keep me waiting much longer?"

Nope. No. Absolutely not.

I get rid of my clothes as quickly as I can — because, holy fuck, it really is cold — and climb in. I sit against the opposite edge of the tub, sinking down till the water is up to my chin.

Eli smiles. And it might be the almost full moon, it might be the warm glow of the lights outside, it might be the heat from the water, but now I feel a little tipsy too.

"Shouldn't there be bubbles?" He asks, moving his arms across the water, making it ripple softly like silk in a gentle breeze.

My eyes get caught on the contours of his broad shoulders and the strong lines of his collarbones peaking out from the surface of the water. It takes me a while to process his question. The corners of his lips twitch up as my eyes snap back to his face. I stretch an arm out to press the button on the side of the tub and the bubbles turn on.

Eli's smile stretches to a full-blown grin.

I remember now one text I sent, much earlier this year, promising Rafael — the pool boy from Malibu — that I would show him the hot tub if he ever came to Lake City to visit. He also asked about the bubbles.

It feels weird. Why would I remember that now? In fact, why would I ever want anyone else naked in this hot tub with me aside from Eli?

As if summoned by my thoughts, Eli swims over to me. Except it's not really swimming if you're crouching down on a hot tub. He leans over, almost impossibly gently, and kisses me. Something warm and eager pools around my stomach and I let him take what he wants from this kiss, slow and steady and sweet.

I could lose myself in this kiss.

But somehow I don't. Something stirs inside me, triggering one last assault of my conscience. Because fuck. Eli Blake is naked in my hot tub, kissing me stupid, and I just have to make sure this is cool.

Eli chases my lips as I pull back, before slowly blinking his eyes open. I look into the deep hazel streaked with rays of gray. At least, that's how I know his eyes look like. In the dim, warm light out here, coming from a single lamp near the porch, they look near-black.

"What you said earlier," I start. "About drinking."

"What?" He asks, looking the picture of boyish innocence. But there's something different in his expression too. Something strangely percipient, like he isn't as out-of-it-drunk as I initially thought.

"You know what," I whisper.

I half expect him to break the eye contact. Pull back. Maybe even leave.

He doesn't.

"Drinking helps me forget."

I gulp. "Forget what?"

His shoulders jerk. "Everything," he murmurs barely above a whisper.

I know that's a red flag. A pretty significant one.

But Eli climbs on top of me, straddling my lap, and my brain is sludge again. Because apparently that's all it takes to reduce me to an irrational sac of hormone-driven flesh. That, and the kiss than follows.

Jesus, was Eli this good a kisser when we first started doing this, or is the alcohol helping him let go? He was always intense, but never like this. Tonight he feels like a starved man having his first meal in years. Or, better yet, the last one in a long time.

I break the kiss for a moment to ask, "Why would you want to forget?"

Eli's lips descend down my neck. I think he's going to ignore my question until he mumbles into my skin, "I don't need it when I'm with you."

And, fuck, if that's not the mother of all red flags. But I don't stop him. Instead, I melt into another kiss. Because this is Eli, and his lips on mine are heaven, and his hands on my chest are sin, and my stomach is hell burning with the heat of nine thousand fires. Eli rolls his hips down on mine and I lose my shit.

There must be a single vestige of solid brain matter in my head still, however, because in another lost moment of sobriety I pull Eli back to make sure I can see his face properly. His hands slide over my shoulders and down my back.

I summon every bit of will power in my body to focus on what I say next.

"I can't do this if you're going to wake up tomorrow and hate me."

His eyes stay on mine. And I can see it now. He definitely drank before coming here, but he's still here. He's in the moment. He can hear what I'm saying and he understands it.

"I won't," he whispers.

It's not enough. I feel like I should say more. Something different. Something better.

"Please," he breathes leaning in to put his lips to mine, before I can dwell on that thought too long. His lips brush against my cheek next and he kisses me gently there. Then near my jaw. Just bellow my ear. On my collar bone.

My eyes close.

***

So. Things happened. Thoughts?

Any questions, frustrations and anxieties to share? About this chapter and the next to come?

The final five chapters have been fighting me a little but I'm still confident I should have this story complete by mid-September.

Until then, thanks for reading and, if you liked it, please leave a vote or a comment! I really appreciate the engagement I've been getting lately :)