12/9/16
I CAN'T STAY away.
It's been exactly four days since the last time I sat in the library and felt the most at home I've felt in years being surrounded by all those books.
During the past couple days I've sneaked in and grabbed a few books to read in the middle of the night when Chase was fast asleep. But it isn't the same. Cuddling against the soft leather, the smell of old and new books filling my senses, and a book in hand. That place is a slice of heaven in my eyes and I want to sit there every night like I promised myself I would.
But I'm scared. I'm scared that Clayton will be there and anything to do with him makes me feel uncomfortable. Uncomfortable because he makes me feel everything but that.
The screen on my phone tells me it's a little past one in the morning and I can't sleep. I'm itching to be back downstairs in the small room that makes my heart so unbelievably happy.
I run my fingers through my dark hair and lazily toss it on top of my head. A sigh flies from my parted lips and suddenly my phone buzzes. My brows pull together in confusion as to who would be texting me at this time.
My fingers latch onto the cool phone pulling it off its charger and my entire body freezes when I see the name lit up across my screen. My mouth suddenly dries and I swallow in attempts to wet my throat. There's no part of me that understands why she would be texting me. I haven't seen or talked to her since right before I left for college. She is the reason so many things in my life have gone wrong, and the pure unadulterated anger that fills me in this moment astounds me.
I haven't thought about her in so long that the emotion at her trying to reach out to me shocks me. I toss the phone back onto the nightstand and run my now sweaty palms over my bare thighs.
My body shakes slightly as tears welt in my eyes. Because I hate her for what she did, I hate how fast she moved on, and I hate how even when I try I can't understand her. The need to be surrounded by the books fills my bones and I don't think twice about leaving the bedroom and running as quietly as possible downstairs.
I push open the door and a part of my heart drops into my stomach while the other part jolts in a secret excitement that Clayton is here, and my anger instantly vanishes into something else. Something I shouldn't feel. My eyes take in his slouched body, and before I even spot all the empty beer bottles and half full bottle of scotch the smell of alcohol overwhelms me enough to take a step back.
"Whoa," I whisper as I step in and close the door behind me with a soft thud.
Clayton drinks, he's twenty-five so obviously he drinks. But I've never seen him drunk. I think back to that fading memory of a kiss I know I will never receive again, he only had one drink at the bar and didn't seem the one bit intoxicated. Even when the family drinks he never has more then one glass, he's always so calculated and controlled. But I know as I lean against the door he's not in control, something sent him into a spiral and I know I should leave. I know this situation isn't going to end well if I stay.
But I don't move. Well actually I do move, I move forward. Away from the door and step into a situation that I know will deepen the spiral he's already in.
"Are you drunk?" I ask as my feet continue to bring me forward until I'm standing over the large couch. His long limbs fill the couch more then I ever could. He's tall. I've always known that. But his presence is always so large, so in your face in a way that consumes me that I've never taken account how tall he actually is.
His face stays angled down and focuses on the words of the book he's holding. A Stephen King novel I assume. He doesn't make any move to look at me or even respond to my question. Even though I'm pretty sure we both know the answer.
"Clayton," I say his name aloud for the first time in a while and I love the way it feels tumbling out of my lips. I love it too much.
He pauses as his hand stops in the middle of turning the page. Even though we've never spoken about it we both are fully aware the power we hold when speaking each other's names. There's a reason we don't say it often to each other. We both can feel the weight of each other's names on our tongues, and it makes everything stop. My heart, my body, my soul stops and absorbs the words until my body flames with things I know I can't have.
His head lifts and his eyes meet mine for a moment, cold and bloodshot, before they land back on his book. Wordless, not answering me letting his body fall even more into the couch.
I pause for a few seconds longer knowing I probably look like a freak just standing over his drunk frame, but I still stay. I watch him read his book before I walk over to the shelf and grab a random book. But I know the library almost well enough to know I'm in the Hemingway section, which means anything I grab I know I will enjoy. But I can't lie, I'm not that focused on reading tonight. I came in here angry and completely upset and looking for a space to feel safe and calmed by. I was looking to read until I physically couldn't keep my eyes open anymore. But instead when I walked in I was greeted with Clayton, and the moment my eyes took in his tousled hair and slouched body I knew I was in for it.
Suddenly tonight isn't about reading. It is about being close, even if sitting across the room from him, to someone who makes me feel. Feel too much, feel everything, feel so much I fear and crave being around him all at once. Hot. Cold. Hot. Cold. Just like that day on the boat, it's how I feel every time I'm around him.
I tuck my legs under me and snuggle my body into the warm leather of the chair. I open the book and realize it's a collection of short stories so I flip through the pages until I reach about halfway through, and begin to read a random story.
I want to read this, I want to get lost in the book that I don't see or feel or think about anything around me. But I know that's not possible because I can't focus on anything around me when Clayton is around. I can hear his deep breathes echo through his lungs, I can feel his eyes swipe up my bare legs, and I can't stop my eyes from flicking up from the book every few seconds to take him in.
He's dressed in plaid pajama bottoms and a simple white shirt that only makes his tan skin darker. He radiates the sun in every way possible, but he hides it like an eclipse. He doesn't let anyone see the light that fills him, but I have. At the bar a year ago, and I know I should move on from that moment and realize that nothing will ever come from it anymore. That he's obviously a different man, and I was a blimp in his timeline that he can't even remember.
But I can't. Because he does have light, even if I'm the only one who can see it right now. Even if he's trying to hide it, I see it. I see him. Maybe because I blast my light so bright so that no one can see the darkness that fills me.
I close the book I'm reading out of nowhere and stand from the chair deciding I don't want to read this. I need something to catch my attention and distract me from the man in front of me. Because when I leave this room and go back upstairs the same text will be on my phone and my anger will return once again. So I want to enjoy these next few hours and get lost in away that doesn't scare me. Lost in words.
As I wander around the room edged with floor to ceiling shelves I hear a scoff come from behind me. My body flips around on its own accord, and my eyes narrow in on the ones that are glued to my bronzed thighs.
"Something you need to say?" I ask as my hands land on my hips.
His eyes spring to mine, and his mouth gapes slightly as if he didn't expect me to call him out. But he doesn't really know me, so why would he? Though at times when I feel his eyes on me it feels like he knows me better then I know myself.
A puff of air pushes from his pink lips. "Nothing," he barely speaks before his eyes fall back to his half read book. A part of me wonders if he's as distracted by me as I am by him? But I push those thoughts away, far far away, because it doesn't matter. Nothing can happen with him. Nothing.
I roll my eyes and turn my attention to the books because I need to stop focusing on Clayton.
"Where would Lois Lowry be?" I ask randomly in the mood to read my father's favorite author.
I glance over my shoulder to see Clayton once again ignore me, as his eyes don't move from his book. My jaw clenches hating the annoyance that fills me from him ignoring me. I'm already upset about the text that came through, and obviously he's going through something as the stench of liquor still hangs in the air.
"Clayton," I say calling out his name.
His eyes snap up, his face stoic as he barely shows any emotion towards me, or anyone in general. "Top shelf," he finally answers after a pause as he lifts his hand to point to the shelf behind me.
I nod once. "Thank you," I say pointedly but he just lets his gaze fall back to his book and away from me.
There's a small step stool in the corner that I use, but even with it I can still barely reach the top shelf. I rise to my tippy toes and lift my right arm over my head as my left hand holds onto the case to give me stability. My hand finds the book I'm looking for but my fingers barely graze the worn spine.
Out of nowhere I hear a loud clank, almost like glass cracking, that scares me so much I almost fall off of the stool. I pause to steady myself then rotate on the small platform to see the glass Clayton was nursing on the table, the sound making sense now. His eyes hold mine, and the once honey like color of his eyes turn dark. Like honey being poured into coffee and disappearing into the hot black depths of steam.
I watch him with wide eyes and a shocked expression confused as to where this sudden burst of undiluted irritation is coming from. He slams his book shut and stands, albeit slightly wobbly, from the couch.
"What is wrong with you?" I ask baffled at the resentment that radiates from him.
"Do you not own pants?" he asks rudely as his hands clench and his eyes narrow.
"What?" I breathe not understanding what he's getting at.
"Pants," he states loudly. "They're something that most people put on to cover their legs," he explains tersely.
"I uhh—" I barely stutter out before he cuts me off.
"And yet you seem to not own any because you keep showing up here in just a T-shirt and prancing around—"
This time I cut off his words as a new bolt of aggravation moves through my bones. "Prancing around?" I question heatedly before my lips fall into a flat line.
"Yes!" he shouts as his long arms fly to the side in emphasis.
"I'm literally reading!" I counter trying to understand this man. If he doesn't like my outfit, he doesn't have to look at me.
"Yeah, reading," he sneers as he stuffs his hands into his front pockets of his worn pajama bottoms.
"Whatever," I mumble as the anger mixes into a new feeling, one of embarrassment. Maybe he doesn't want to look at me because he doesn't like the way I look. Maybe he doesn't find me attractive. My chest constricts at the line of questions rolling through my head, and I hate how much the ideas hurt me. How much power this man has over me.
"Whatever," he mocks in response.
My arms cross over my chest defensively not knowing where to go next. We both lock on each other's gazes as we stand in defiant silence. It's as if we are suddenly in a staring contest and neither one of us wants to break. We don't move, we don't blink, and we don't speak as the tension between us mounts until my skin breaks out in heat. I can feel the beads of sweat gather on the back of my neck, I can feel my chest flush scarlet, and his hard gaze on every inch of my skin.
I break. "Can you just grab this book for me please?" I ask my voice coming out weaker then expected. Weaker then I wanted. But at this point I just want to run and leave, everything about his is too much. And this time I don't know if I can handle it. So I back down first, but not enough to leave without the book I want.
"Why?" he asks as he takes a single step towards me. I hate how my heart flutters, actually fucking flutters. What have I turned into?
"So I can go back upstairs and have a book to read," I respond back letting my sarcasm coat me not wanting to explain why I wanted this book so bad.
"Whatever," he mumbles before stepping forward.
I step off the stool so that Clayton can use it if he needs to reach the top shelf. His towering body makes his way over to me until he's just inches away. His chest just a deep breath away from brushing against mine making my face heat and my stomach dip. I swallow, hard, as his hard eyes shimmer at me. They don't waver, they don't blink, they just hold mine with a look that makes my skin break out in a chill covering me with gooseflesh.
"What book?" he asks. His voice comes out gruff yet quiet and grates against me in a way I like far too much.
An unnerving sigh escapes me through my teeth. I shake my head in attempts to shake him off, but with his closeness I can't. Or I don't want to? Either way he's closer then he should be, and nervous flurries fly through my veins. "Doesn't...doesn't matter," I stammer out awkwardly.
"Just any book?" he questions his eyes so hard and locked on me my whole body feels uneasy. The heat, the anger, everything radiating off him fills me so high. As if he's pouring scotch into a glass, but instead it's in me, filing me, intoxicating me. His white-hot light fills me and I hate that I love it. Love the tingling feeling that fills my spine and spreads through my wiry limbs.
"Yeah," I say lamely not able to find any words to say in front of the guy that makes me feel.
Instead of stepping to the side and using the step stool Clayton just leans over me. His long limbs lift himself over me, and his long fingertips reach forward stretching until he meets the shelf without the stool. Shock floods me at his forward action, and my body takes a step back until my body hits the hard edges of the shelf. My eyes take in his extended arms that are perfectly shaped and then my eyes move downward.
They lock on the scrap of skin that is now exposed as his plain shirt rides up. My mouth dries at the sight of his tan skin, and the trail of hair that disappears behind the waistband of his pants. A trail I want to follow with my fingers, my lips. Everything heats, my face, my chest, my hands, my thighs, everything. The tension that surrounds us now isn't focused on anger. It's focused on the flush of my body, how close his deliciously sun kissed skin is to mine, and how every part of me wants him in ways I shouldn't.
He finally grabs onto a book and lowers to the flat of his feet. A book, I honestly don't even know which one, hangs in his left hand as his eyes take over me. I can't help but notice the way his dark smooth like scotch eyes linger on the bare skin of my legs.
"Why are you so mad about what I'm wearing?" I almost whisper suddenly feeling as if we are in this bubble again. But this bubble doesn't feel like the one we had at the store yesterday. It feels deeper, stronger, and makes my whole stomach twist in a way that causes my whole body to ache.
His eyes meet mine and his chest begins to move up and down with deep breaths that fill his whole body.
"Doesn't matter," he answers gruffly.
"Doesn't matter?" I repeat with disbelief coating my words.
"Yeah," he pushes annoyed. I know he wants me to take the book and back off, and I should. That is exactly what I should do. But the way his eyes look at me make me feel drunk and I take a leap. I leap and say something I probably shouldn't.
But I do anyway. "Then why do you keep looking at me like that?" I question quietly as my tongue darts out to wet my lips.
I don't miss the way his eyes lower to my lips and watch them like a ravenous animal. "Like what?" he drawls and I don't miss the way he lowers his neck. I don't miss the way his chest now touches mine making my whole body feel burned, but in the best way possible. I don't miss the way his hot breath coats my lips, and I can smell the liquor on his tongue but that only makes me want to take a drink. A deep one.
My left hand moves without permission and before I know it my hand slides up his toned chest. Slowly taking in every inch, just as I did a year ago at the bar. I watch my hand move upwards until I reach his neck, the pure heat of his skin almost scorching me. I swipe my thumb against the soft skin at the base of his neck and the sound that elicits from Clayton makes my knees weaken.
I let my eyes flick back up to his, and I can feel the constant thrumming of his pulse under my fingers letting me know how much what I'm doing isn't only effecting me. I begin to move my hand further before his right hand rips my hand from his warm skin. He slams my hand against the shelf I'm backed into and lets his long fingers wrap around my wrist. He's so close, he's everywhere, and before I can stop myself I say, "Like you want me," and with that he leans forward.
What surprises me is that he doesn't kiss me. Well, not in the way I want. Instead he places a soft kiss on the corner of my mouth. I make an attempt to shift my head so that my lips will touch his, but he leans into my body even more so that the shelves are digging into my back. His left hand drops the book and circles my waist, and now both of his hands wrap around pieces of me and they hold on firmly with a squeeze.
It's a silent order I realize, an order not to move. And a part of me, too big a part of me, likes the way he holds me almost too tightly as if he can't control himself with me. As if he's right on the brink and about to fall over an edge we both know we can't back away from.
His lips move then. They drop to the soft pad of my cheek, and then to the edge of my chin. And then without notice he nips at my ear making a soft gasp fly from my parted lips. It's as if that one sound spurs him forward and his lips move lower and attack.
He sucks, he bites, he licks, he kisses, and then he does it all again, and I'm a goner. I know in this moment I will let him do anything he wants to me, because I've never felt so perfectly unstable. I feel completely drunk on his body, and high off his lips. My eyes flutter shut, and before I know it my right hand is clutching onto his shirt as my left hand weaves into his hair and pulls his lips closer to my throbbing skin. His one hand laces it's way through my now fallen locks, and pulls in a way that shoots directly to the spot between my thighs and exposes my neck to his scraping teeth.
Clayton then slides his hand over my ass and under my bare thigh making me shiver beneath him, and he hasn't even kissed me properly. He lifts my leg so that it wraps around his hip letting him align our bodies like two imperfect puzzle pieces coming together. He lifts me slightly and slams me even further against the books, and this singular action makes me lose it. I love how much it hurts, I hurt for how much I love his body against mine and I drop my grip on him and try and find a grip on the bookshelf behind me.
His head lifts and breaks away from my collarbone, and leans in until his lips are faintly brushing against mine. Tingling, head spinning, aching. Then suddenly books are falling.
Falling loudly, falling between us, falling on us.
We pull apart with loud gasps as I realize my hands were the ones that dragged them down. My fingers in attempts to find stability in a moment where I was falling without fear pulled at books thinking it was shelving not hard covered novels.
Silence surrounds us after the rain of literary works, and I look at Clayton's disheveled hair and rumpled shirt. I look at his heaving chest and pink lips and flushed skin as embarrassment and horror spin their way into my body. I cast a glance at my oversized shirt that's falling off my shoulder, and before I can stop myself I lift my hand to my neck. Even with the soft pad of my fingers I can feel the bruises he left, he marked me.
Shame floods every ounce of me because I now have to cover these up and hide them from not only Chase, but also his family.
I'm losing it, and I realize I'm on the verge of losing too much.
So I run.