The Plight Before Christmas(60)

Guilt is all I feel now due to his reaction and, after, his withdrawal. He was completely quiet at dinner and insisted I take the night off from the dishes due to my spill. I didn’t argue, but I watched him briefly as he scrubbed them furiously, staring down into the water, lost in thought. When I walked in with the last of the plates, having decided on an apology, he straightened his back and spoke up, refusing to look at me.

“Don’t, please, Whitney, don’t apologize to me if that’s what you’re thinking. I’m begging you.”

As if sensing my thoughts, his eyes drift over to me as I stand, back and shoulders screaming as I relinquish my headband. “I’m going to take a shower.”

I get no protest from anyone at the table before dragging myself up the stairs. Once inside the bathroom, I immerse myself under the spray, letting the heat cover my aching body. Today scared the shit out of me in more ways than one. The thought of anything happening to Peyton—hell, to anyone in my family—is my worst fear. I really don’t know how parents do it. The other fear was that I was losing myself again due to my attraction to him—and not just physically—but wanting to be in the same room with him, craving his company. Things I long ago convinced myself I got over—which I did. Just not to the extent I gave myself credit for. Uncapping my shampoo, I stare at the shower tiles in a daze as I’m flooded with a memory.

Lenny Kravitz’s “Five” plays on repeat throughout Eli’s bedroom as I face him on my pillow.

“Your turn,” I say as he adjusts himself on the bed, cradling his head with his hand, which only accentuates the defined bulge of his bicep beneath his T-shirt. A T-shirt I’ve imagined ripping from him since our torturous study session began. When he invited me over to “study,” I assumed the invitation would lead to sex. In pregame mode, I buffed my skin and shaved twice, making sure I was romp ready. Wearing my skimpiest thong sans bra beneath his hoodie, I packed nothing but a toothbrush. I didn’t miss his amusement when he guided me by the hand past his roommates and into his bedroom only to be met by a waiting stack of books, two of which he used last year in classes that I’m currently taking. This ensured my lack of packing was in vain.

For the first few hours as we hit the books, he did nothing but torture me, giving me heated side glances and a few lengthy kisses while forcing me to leave everything else to my imagination. After twelve dates, six of them spent waiting for a kiss, this bitch is officially in heat.

Though his hesitance to get physical feels like a genuine effort on his part to debunk his Casanova reputation, every part of me craves that connection. The anticipation is both agonizing and delicious—knowing that no amount of vocalizing my frustration will grant me any headway. I’ve spent hours memorizing him—his expressions, the tiny mole on his lash line, the masculine bow of his top lip, the timbre of his voice. He has no imperfections, or if he does, I’m blind to them. I’m far too smitten with him already, even if he’s draining the patience out of me. A few times, I’ve caught myself in the midst of daydreams during lectures when I should have been taking notes. I both love and loathe the power he currently has over me due to such vivid daydreams. My only solace is that my infatuation at times seems reciprocal, even if his restraint is driving me bat shit. Part of my fascination lies in the fact that he’s so hard to read.

Gazing over at him now, I trail my fingers along his pecs, and he covers my hand, flattening my palm to his chest.

“Three little things?” He asks.

“Yeah,” I dip my chin studying his prominent Adam’s apple, tempted to run my tongue along it. “Little things you love.”

“I love running.”

I yawn dramatically.

“Okay, okay, you want creative?”

“By all means, Snorli.”

“Cute.”

“I am, yes,” I agree while managing to keep a straight face.

“Very,” his eyes rake over me suggestively.

“You’re stalling.”

“I’m thinking. Are you going to let me do that, or do you want a bullshit answer?”

“I guess I can wait.”

He shakes his head. “I love waking up—”

“Waking up?” I frown.

“I wasn’t finished. I love waking up in my own bed.”

“This is an issue for you? And if so, how many other beds are we talking about?”

He rolls his eyes. “Give it a rest with that shit.”

“Fine.” I relax my shoulders, hating the gnaw in my gut as I sink into his pillow. “I can’t say it’s not comfortable. Thread count ain’t too shabby, either.”

He grins. “Smartass.”

“Next thing.”

He lifts his confiscated hoodie a mere inch above the hem of the boxer shorts he lent me to sleep in, and his eyes follow the path of his fingers along my skin.

“Okay,” he speaks up. “I’ve got one. This may seem weird, but I love biting into a pretzel and then taking a sip of Coke.”

“Seriously? You spent a full minute coming up with that?”

“You ever tried it?”

“Can’t say that I have.”

“Well you should, the salt reacts to the carbonated water, and it’s like a party in your mouth.”