Figure out some way to reconcile this.
Act like a fucking grown-up.
But the second I get home, see her on the couch, watch hurt spread over her expression—
My body screams bring her to your room, touch her, taste her, fuck her.
Comfort her the only way you know how.
I can't stand here and say I'm sorry, I was out of line, I won't do it again.
I don't believe it.
But I can't take her to my room and fuck her either.
So I nod hey. Ask, "You have dinner?"
"I'm not hungry. And I have a test tomorrow." She doesn't give me a chance to respond. Pulls her textbooks to her chest. Moves up the stairs.
Okay. I have time.
An entire minute.
But it's the same problem.
I won't apologize for kissing her.
I won't tell her I don't want her.
I can't touch her.
So I let her go. I go to the gym, work out until I'm exhausted, shower, fix dinner, knock on her door to let her know it's ready.
She doesn't reply. But a few minutes later, she leaves her room. Heats up dinner. Talks with Gabe about some TV show they both watch.
She has company.
Probably better company than me.
Dad is an asshole sometimes, but he's not an alcoholic fuckup. He doesn't break everything he touches.
He isn't going to kiss Daisy's best friend.
All week, it's the same. I work late. Spend my evenings at the gym. Leave her dinner in the fridge.
She stops avoiding me, but she barely speaks when we pass. She just nods, says something about the weather, returns to studying.
By Saturday, I'm worn thin. Work is my only distraction. Then too many cups of coffee.
The bar next to my favorite shop is already pounding. Friends out for an early night. Drinking beers or slamming shots.
Laughing.
Forgetting their problems.
Erasing the voice in their head screaming I'm a fuckup.
There's beer on the patio. I can smell it from the sidewalk. I don't even like beer, but I want every drop.
Every perfect, pain erasing drop.
I jog home instead. Try to scrub myself clean in the shower. Fail to erase my thoughts.
Maybe Dad was right.
Maybe I can't handle this.
Maybe I need more help. Something else. Something more serious.
Or maybe…
I don't know.
I cinch a towel around my waist. Step into the hallway. Try to think of some way to soothe myself without drinking.
The door to Luna's room opens. She steps into the hallway in a short black dress and wedge boots.
She's all dolled up. Deep red lips, dark eye makeup, shiny silver purse.
Gorgeous grey eyes passing over me.
She's not shy about checking out my shoulders, chest, stomach, hips.
Her breath catches in her throat. Her eyes move back up my body. Stop at mine. "You're not ready yet."
Huh?
She notices my dumbstruck expression. "Patrick's birthday. We said we'd go together."
Shit, is that today? The guys at the shop have been talking about it all week. But it's always in the middle of shit I try to ignore.
Booze, birthday, booze.
I bought you more Bud Light! What a present, huh? Think you'll ever be able to handle the hard stuff? Maybe in a sippy cup!
"Ollie?" Her chest rises with her inhale. "Are you okay?"
"Yeah. Just, uh, need coffee."
Her eyes flit to the window. It's already dark. Way past the usual time for coffee. "Maybe I should meet you there."
"No. I'll get dressed."
"Okay."
"Give me ten." I wait for her to tease me. Ten minutes is a while, what do you need all that time for? But she doesn't.
She just nods okay and moves down the stairs.
Of course.
This is the most we've spoken since I kissed her.
She's wearing the same lipstick. When I close my eyes, I taste it.
I taste her.
Is this really better than going for it?
Either I lose the only person who gets me.
Or I risk losing my sister.
Fucking this up for all three of us.
I can't do that.
I need to behave myself.
I dress in my nicest outfit. Slacks, a button-up shirt, motorcycle boots.
Maybe that's what I need. A fucking bike. Another way to find a thrill.
Anything that isn't touching her.
My cock protests.
I attempt to reason with it.
Yeah, Luna is dressed to kill. Yeah, she's gorgeous and sweet and sassy and I really want to hear her come, but—
Fuck, I've got nothing.
The damn thing is winning.
I don't have the willpower.
I don't have the reason.
I don't have shit.
These aren't jeans. I can't hide a hard-on.
With that outfit she's wearing—
Fuck, I don't know.
I take a deep breath. Let out a heavy exhale. Move downstairs.
She's at the counter, her back to me. A gorgeous silhouette.
Tall black boots, long legs, short black dress that hugs every inch of her curves. It's off the shoulders. Like she's in the middle of stripping.
And that short haircut—
Her elegant neck is on display. Begging for my hands, lips, teeth—
Fuck, I want to kiss her, touch her, hold her.
"You ready to go?" She keeps her back to me.