His hands on me.
With each passing second, my fantasies pull me deeper, my heartbeat growing erratic.
Moving with his body brushing mine, serves as an accelerator, pumping my blood at a quickened rate, sending the alcohol coursing through me straight to my brain, and with it, washing away my sense of reason, or at least that’s the only thing I can come up with as to why I suddenly dare to drag my hands a little lower.
Hips still rolling, I slowly run my palms over the curve of his shoulders, gliding them over the cuts of his pecs.
Chase’s eyes fly to mine and my hands decide to climb up, higher and higher, until my fingers are spanning along his corded neck. Chase swallows, a small frown building along his brow.
The bass of the music pounds wildly beneath our feet, the lights change colors, dimming the space around us, and the crowd seems to shuffle in. We’re barricaded now, Chase and me.
We’ve danced before. At birthdays and our parents’ anniversary parties, couple school formals, but not like this. Not close and never after a few drinks.
This is new. Foreign.
My fingers find their way into his hair, and I scratch at the base of his skull in a gentle, massage-like motion. I shift the slightest bit, on accident, and he hisses as my thigh brushes the proof of his arousal.
He’s hard.
Holy shit, he’s hard because of me.
I start a new rhythm, my body applying the smallest bit of pressure to his package with every move, and his hands come up, clutching on to my wrist, his lips finding my ear.
“Ari, what are you doing?”
Tequila is heavy on his breath and sends a zing of anticipation down my spine as I remember mine and Cameron’s conversation, a newfound confidence floating through me.
“What am I doing?” I repeat his question and I pull back to meet his drawn-in gaze. “I’m doing whatever I want.” Boys be damned.
His features pull, tightening at every inch.
I crush my lips to his.
Chase tenses, his hands twitching against me one second, flying to grab hold of my biceps in the next, and then he’s pushing us apart, his long arms stretching to their max. Wide, bloodshot eyes find mine, and his face pales.
Chase shakes his head, and his features begin to crumble. “Arianna… no.”
My mouth opens, but nothing comes out, and his hands come up to rub along his face.
Tears prick the backs of my eyes as I take in the mortified expression on his face. My skin flushes and I look away.
Mason and Cam break through the crowd then and Chase’s hands fly from my body, sweeping into his hair, as he plasters on the biggest, fakest, tightest smile I’ve ever seen.
My insides crack as reality sets in.
I wanted to kiss him and he didn’t want to kiss me back, but nothing stings more than the look of horror in his eyes when he realized what I’d done.
Without his permission, I forced him across the line he kept ten feet in front of him. That little line is now covered in a layer of wet sand, and everyone who’s ever set foot in the ocean knows it’s not so easily wiped away. It grows thicker with wind and waves, and we’re in Southern California, so we’ve got those in abundance.
Not that it matters, because if his panic-stricken expression said anything, it’s that he’ll shovel that shit to the ends of the ocean if he must.
Thankfully, alcohol not only sloshes through the two of us, but also the two who have now rejoined us, so they don’t notice a thing, and when my brother passes me a water bottle, kissing my forehead before turning to his best friend with a sloppy smile, I accept it with a tight grin. I finish off half of it and spin to Cameron. She hands me one of the shots in her hands, and before we throw them back, Brady appears out of nowhere, ready with a drink of his own.
All five of us form a small circle, downing our drinks in one go, and it doesn’t stop there, the need to get wasted higher than ever, so, anytime someone suggests another, I’m there to eagerly egg us on.
I feel like a fool, but the low lights and loads of liquor fogging my vision hide the tears that slip without permission. Thank hell for that and thank heaven for generous bartenders, who serve us past last call.
It’s not until well after two that we’re stumbling out of the Uber and trekking our way up the driveway to our front door.
Cameron tugs her shoes from her feet and begins bouncing on her toes. “Hurry up, Mase! I have to pee soooo bad. You don’t even know!”
He chuckles, struggling with the doorknob. “I’m trying, but this key’s broken or something,” he slurs.
“Oh my god!” I gasp, looking around. “We forgot Brady!” I kick Mase.