This is Kaleb. The older son.
He pulls up the hose and leans over the sink, running the water over his dark hair and down his back, cleaning the mess off his body. When he stands up straight again, I watch as he rubs the water over the back of his neck, and I notice a thin, faint tattoo running vertically from the bottom of his skull to his shoulder. Some kind of script.
His hands glide down, over his stomach, making the muscles there flex and the water drench his jeans. The overhead bulb swings back and forth from the wind he let in, the light hitting him and then the darkness swallowing him up again.
But I see him turn his head again—looking at me. His dark eyes fall down my body and stop, zoning in with his jaw flexing, and my stomach flips and then drops, every hair on my body standing on end. The room suddenly feels so small.
I inhale a breath. “Um, you’re, uh…” I say, standing up. “You’re… um, Kaleb, right?”
He meets my eyes again, and I see that his aren’t really dark, after all. They’re green.
But he looks mad.
His black eyebrows narrow, casting this shadow over his gaze, and he turns back around as if I’m not here, finishing his washing. He turns off the water and grabs a shop cloth, wiping off his face and neck and then runs it over the top of his head, smoothing his hair back and soaking up the drenched strands.
Hello?
What’s his problem? Why isn’t he answering me?
As he turns toward me, though, and tosses the shop cloth into the sink, he meets my eyes again, holding my stare, and then he cocks his head a little. I almost laugh. The gesture makes him look so innocent. Like a curious puppy.
But then his loaded eyes drop to my stomach again, and his chest rises and falls heavier, and I clench my thighs. Instinctively, I put my hand where his eyes are, and I feel it.
The bare skin of my stomach.
My breath catches in my throat, and I look down, seeing I’m still wearing my ripped T-shirt, the fabric torn and exposing my belly. I cringe. This whole time…
But as I trail my hand, my fingers brush the exposed underside of my fucking breast, and I stop breathing altogether. I pull down my shirt as much as it will go and back up, ready to scramble for the stairs.
As soon as I move, he moves, walking right for me. He approaches, droplets of water hanging from his skin, and I dart toward the stairs, but he shoots out his hand, grabs me, and shoves me into the wall instead.
Wha…
I gasp, fear curdling in my stomach.
He presses his body into mine, taking my waist in one hand and planting his other hand on the wall above my head, and dips his forehead down to mine, looking into my eyes. The embrace is intimate, and it feels like he’ll kiss me, but he doesn’t. I open my mouth to say something, but his breath brushes my lips—hot and heady—and the room is spinning.
He’s cold, but I feel warmer inside. Like I’m about to sweat.
Reaching up, he takes the ribbon I’m wearing and runs it through his fingers before bringing a lock of my hair to his nose and smelling it.
Then he dips to the side, running his nose over my ear, up my hairline, and across my forehead, inhaling me.
Smelling me.
It’s weird, but I can’t move. I shiver, pleasure at the gesture making my body react. My skin tightens, the flesh of my nipples pebbling and chafing against my T-shirt, and I close my eyes for a moment, loving the electric current flowing under my skin.
I should push him away.
I can’t lift my arms for some reason, though.
“I, um,” I choke out. “I don’t think you should—”
But he reaches between us with one hand, his forehead resting on mine with fire in his eyes as he starts ripping open his belt and undoing his jeans.
Whoa, what? My mouth falls open. “Wait, stop.” I plant my hands on his chest. “You can’t…What are you…”
But he presses himself into me, breathing harder with his teeth bared a little, and I feel the hard ridge of him rubbing between my legs.