Page 64 of Blindside Me
I close my eyes, my forehead pressing harder into his, desperate to keep us in this stolen second longer.
“Me either,” I whisper back.
Neither of us pulls away. Neither of us apologizes.
Because we both know the truth now.
This was never going to be safe. It was always going to be everything.
I don’t know how long we stand there, breathing each other in, clinging to something too big to name yet too fragile to say aloud. Drew’s forehead rests against mine, and neither of us moves. Neither wants to chance shattering everything if we break the stillness.
Outside, the rain pounds harder. The rain-soaked shirt amplifies his scent, and I want to memorize this moment so badly that it hurts.
Wanting him is reckless. But standing here with his kiss still burning on my lips, it doesn’t feel like a mistake.
“You’re soaked.” His deep, rich voice vibrates through me, making me shiver.
“Yes, I am.” There’s a seductive drawl to my tone because there isn’t one inch of my body dry right now.
“I should do something about that.”
He moves his hands slowly, seductively, higher, tracing a path along my skin. I’m so fucking turned on, my head spins. His thumbs brush the undersides of my breasts. It’s like coming home to a place I’ve never been but somehow always knew. I lean into him, blaming my frenzied state for my body’s natural response. But damn, his touch is fire, even through the fabric. He retakes my mouth, but this kiss isn’t rushed like the one back at the dance club. It’s slow and tantalizing. Perfect.
I moan a sound that’s unrecognizable to my own ears. It seems to break something loose in him. He presses harder against me, his hips pinning mine to the wall. Heat floods through me from the unmistakable bulge pressing against my stomach. My fingers find the hem of his shirt, pushing under to touch bare skin.
His muscles tense beneath my fingertips. His stomach contracts, abs rigid as I trace the line of hair that disappears beneath his waistband. Our ragged breath fills the room, punctuated by the wet sounds of our kisses and the occasional rustle of fabric as we shift against each other.
Drew’s mouth leaves mine, trailing hot kisses along my jaw and down the column of my throat. His teeth scrape my pulse point, and I shudder against him. My eyes fall closed. My head tips back against the wall. His name escapes me in a breathless whisper.
“Drew.”
He freezes. His lips still pressed to the hollow of my throat, but motionless now. His hands on my ribs, thumbs just brushing the underwire of my bra, become statue-still. For a moment, the only movement is the rise and fall of our chests as we struggle to breathe normally.
Then he pulls back just enough to rest his forehead against mine again. His eyes close as dark lashes fan against his cheeks. A muscle in his jaw ticks, tension radiating from him in waves. His fingers, still beneath my shirt, tremble slightly against my skin.
“I shouldn’t be here,” he whispers, but makes no move to step away.
His words hover between us, at odds with how tightly he still holds me. I watch his face, the conflict written in the furrow of his brow, the tightness around his eyes. There’s fear there, just below the surface. Not of me, but of this, us, of what it might mean. What it might cost.
My fingers brush his jawline, featherlight. Tracing the stubble there, the sharp angle of bone beneath the skin. He leans into the touch like he’s starved for it.
“Drew,” I say again, my voice catching on his name.
His eyes open, meeting mine. Recognition, or maybe understanding, passes between us. He looks at me like I’m both salvation and damnation wrapped in one confusing package. As if I were something breakable he might ruin.
The air between us shifts and grows heavy with unspoken complications. With all the reasons this is a bad idea.
Hockey. School. His teammates. Coach Howell’s expectations. The future he’s worked so hard for. The one his dad demands he achieve.
Drew’s body stills as his muscles tense beneath my touch. His eyes dart to the door, then back to me. His expressionchanges and hardens. The vulnerability I glimpsed moments ago disappears beneath a mask of resolve.
And then I hear it. Footsteps. Heavy. Determined. And coming down the hallway toward my door. They’re too loud to be just any student. Too familiar in their cadence.
My roommate is back.
Drew steps back like I’ve burned him. His hands slide from under my shirt, leaving cold patches where his warmth had been. The sudden absence of his touch and the loss of his warmth leave me staggering. I press my palms against the wall behind me, trying to keep my legs from buckling.
“Wecan’t.” His voice breaks on the second word as those two syllables cut through me more sharply than anything else tonight. They hurt more than they should, considering I know he’s right. We can’t. It’s a bad idea. It’s dangerous and complicated.
