The truth is, I don’t have a fucking clue what I’m doing. Acting on impulse or desperation, if I had to put a name to it. All I know is I can’t let him leave here tonight without at least trying. “You really ought to change your mind…” My words come out husky, giving my desire away.
Warmth spreads through my body, landing in my groin as I watch his eyes dip to my lips. “About what?”
“Tomorrow morning. I’m going to contact Giselle and tell her I’d like to see you again,” I tell him, bringing my face closer to his. “I’m going to need you to not fight me on that, Bodhi.”
“We ca—”
My hand moves, covering his mouth before he can even finish the word, my head dipping down, lips hovering over his ear. “We can…” The fresh, clean scent of his shampoo invading my senses drives me wild. “Stop fighting me.”
A whimper muffled by my hand falls from his mouth, and it’s quite literally the sexiest sound I’ve ever heard. I feel it in every corner of my body. Pulling back, I remove my hand, letting it fall to his throat. He peers up at me from beneath his lashes, a mixture of arousal and apprehension swimming in his gaze.
“Please…” he whispers. I don’t think he even knows what he’s truly asking for, but I’m not giving him a chance to figure it out.
Leaning in, my lips crash down on his with bruising force. His taste surrounds me, as do the tiny sounds coming from him. Lips parting—in protest or giving in, I’m not sure—I take it as a welcome. My tongue slips inside, flicking against his top teeth before sinking deeper. He melts into the car, my body pressing against his as my hands find purchase in his hair.
Finally letting himself get into it, he grabs on to my hips, tongue gliding against mine. I don’t even know how long we stand here in the middle of this empty parking lot, but it’s not long enough. All too soon, he rips his mouth from mine, hands flying to my chest, shoving me back.
“Stop,” he snarls. “This can’t fucking happen. Why don’t you get that?”
This time, when he moves to open his door, I let him. As he drives away in a hurry, my fingers brush over my swollen lips, still wet with our shared saliva. They tingle, and his taste lingers in my mouth.
I want more.
So much more.
Chapter Nine
Bodhi King
Spring Break, Freshman Year of High School
It’s been days…
Days since I’ve eaten anything other than ice chips and protein bars.
Days since I’ve looked at myself in the mirror.
Days since I’ve refrained from making myself sick during the day.
It’s a compulsion at this point, something I do without even thinking twice. Where I used to wake up and think about what my next meal would be, I now wake up and think of how I can make it through the day with the hunger pains. I’ve gotten mostly used to them now. When I first started doing this, it was unbearable. I didn’t think I could make it.
That was over seven months ago.
Now, it’s second nature. I run—a lot—and when I start to feel hungry, I chew on ice or snap the band around my wrist. The sting from the snap helps me forget about the empty feeling in my stomach.
It’s almost midnight, which means I’ve almost made it through another day. My mom and dad are out of town at some seaside resort for their anniversary. The fact that my father took time off work for this is a huge shock to me. But he did. He left the dealership to Charles to look after for the week.
It made Charles’s already huge ego even larger, but it’s also made him meaner, which I didn’t even think was possible. It’s poker night. There’re five or six guys downstairs, loud as hell and rowdy. I can’t even tell who’s winning and who’s losing.
Just as I get under my covers and am about to go to bed, my door bursts open, scaring the shit out of me. Charles’s form takes up the entirety of the doorframe, specks of light peeking through around him, blinding me.
“Get the fuck up.” His words slur as he crosses the room with heavy steps, ripping the covers off me. A chill runs down my spine, and it has nothing to do with how cold I am. Reaching down, he grabs my wrist in a bruising grip, yanking me to my feet.
“W-what are you doing, Charles?” My voice cracks on his name, and I hate how minute I always feel compared to him.
“Oh, little brother, it’s not what I’m doing,” he replies sinisterly. “It’s whatyou’redoing.”
He doesn’t elaborate as he drags me out of my room, my wrist still encompassed by his unforgiving hold. When he walks me through the living room, the empty dining room, and the dimly lit kitchen, he says nothing. Not a single word. It isn’t until we’re in the laundry room, about to go into the garage, that he turns and speaks to me, the words squeezing my chest and filling my gut with thick sludge.
