“Iwant—”
His pulse hammers in his neck, and it does things to my heart. Twisty and foreign andpermanentkinds of things. Carefully, I tilt my head, just enough to feel the subtle shift in the air between our lips.
“What?” My voice shakes, my unsteady fingers touching the waistband of his jeans. “What do you want, Easton?”
My fingernails deliberately graze the skin just above his waistband, beneath his shirt, and a deep, thrilling shudder locks his jaw shut.
“I want your mouth,” he whispers hoarsely.
An uneven breath leaves my lips, and my fingers tremble on his zipper as he gently grips them with his own.
“Your fire.”
I swallow, longing for him to take it.
Take what you want.
Take everything I have.
“Your words.”
Gritting his teeth, he slowly removes my hand from his body. The shift in him is thick, pulsing between us like a divider. Confusion flickers through the deep-seated lust in my bones. He’s pushing me away.
“Your head on my pillow.”
I watch our connected hands through a haze-filled lens as he brings mine back to my side, his fingers twitching before he releases me.
My gaze narrows slightly. He’s angry.
He opens his hoodie, and the sharp edge in his eyes is such a contrast from the gentle way he drapes it over my shoulders. His scent, his warmth, lingers in the soft material, burning my throat as though I’ve downed a shot of hard liquor.
“But you know what I want the most?” he asks,demands, as he takes a small step away from me, deeper into his room. “The only thing I really need?”
I don’t answer because I can’t. My voice is lodged somewhere behind my leaden tongue.
“I want yourhonesty,” he grits out.
Pain slices through me, tears through bone. He watches me like he doesn’t understand my distraught expression. Like I shouldn’t be the one hurt in this scenario. He’s right. He’s so fucking right.
He shuts his eyes, pushes out a slow exhale, and when he opens them again, the ache is so transparent it’s almost tangible. “You’re supposed to be the one who takes me away from all the bullshit in my life, not who buries me deeper in it. Put on a show when you go out, fine. But not for me. Never for me. Ineedyou to be real with me, Eva.” His voice is raw, candid, cutting me deeper with every word. “I can’t do this any other way.”
My chest tightens to suffocate me.
What can I say?
If I share the secret with Easton, any part of it, he’ll want more—he’ll want answers—and he deserves them. What he doesn’t deserve are the consequences that come with the truth, and neither does Alejandro.
When I stay silent, Easton shakes his head, and the look is defeated. He’s given up. I can’t even blame him. He puts up with a lot—from Vincent, from Bridget, and now me. He gives us so much more than we give him, and he always will. His shoulders drop slightly, and he slips his hands into his pockets before he turns and walks into his room.
Ignoring my presence in the hall, he grabs a towel and throws it over one shoulder, getting ready to shower.
My heart screams—at him, at me.
My lips tremble, and before I can stop myself, I open my mouth. “I don’t drink.” The words are weak, pathetic, but he pauses.
He looks over his shoulder, brows furrowing. His patience surges my pulse into motion, giving me renewed hope.
“I pretend I do, but it’s just water. Alcohol scares the shit out of me.”
