the hook-up. {ethma}

chapter 6

emma chamberlain

OLIVIA TAPS NERVOUSLY on her steering wheel as we drive along listening to Adele.

"Why are you so worked up?" I finally ask. "More so than usual, I mean?"

Her eyes are wide as she glances at me. "No reason." And then she turns down a street.

Frat houses line the block. "Olivia! You said this was an off-campus party."

But it's clearly one of Henry's horrible team bashes. Which involves beer bongs, guys pissing on the lawns—among other lovely locations—and basic imbecilic behavior. I was suckered into going to one once before and vowed never again.

"Look, I'm sorry, okay?" Her expression is desperate. "But Henry really wanted me to go, and you've been moping around the house lately."

"I have not been moping!"

"Staring out the window," she insists. "Like some tragic Jane Austen heroine."

"Austen's heroines aren't tragic. They are empowered."

"Says you. All those repressed feelings and prideful denials." Her snub nose wrinkles. "Pathetic. Just own your emotions already."

"Stop trying to change the subject. You kept this from me on purpose. Not cool."

Olivia sighs as she pulls up in front of a big old colonial that's lit up like summer. People spill from the open door, and a girl, laughing manically, tumbles onto the lawn in a pile of limbs.

We both wince before Olivia lifts her pleading eyes to me. "I just didn't think you'd come if I told you." She clutches my arm, and her hand is cold. "Forgive me, Em?"

"You should have taken George." George is Olivia's twin and my other best friend. He usually goes to these parties with her, watching over his little sister while simultaneously hitting on all available women. It works for them. "Where is he, anyway?" I grumble.

"He says he's got a headache." Olivia's mouth flattens in annoyance.

"Suspect." George never gets sick. He's practically inhuman that way.

Olivia pulls out her lipstick and quickly reapplies while glancing in the review mirror. "That's what I said." Her words are muffled as she stretches her lips to get a good coat of glossy red over them. "But what could I do?"

"Not torture me?"

With neat efficiency, she caps the lipstick and plops it into her purse. "Well, where's the fun in that?" Her eyes sparkle in the low light of the car. "Besides, maybe you'll see someone you like."

"Olivia..." My warning glare is lost on her because she's already jumping out of the car with surprising sprightliness, considering her heels. I follow, knowing I'll regret it.
————
ethan dolan

It's friday night, and I'm tired. My body hurts from a brutal practice. Not much difference from any other day, only I haven't been sleeping well and it's wearing on me. A certain brunette occupies my thoughts to a sleep-depriving degree. When I close my eyes, I picture her. Hell, I picture her with my eyes open too.

Mostly, I think of her in profile because that's what I see when I watch her in class. The smooth arch of her graceful jaw, the rounded crest of her cheek that plumps when she smiles, the small, delicate shell of her ear. Curves. Emma is endless curves.

In my mind, I map the pale column of her neck down to where it swoops out to one of her best curves: her breasts. Large. Fuller on the bottom so they give the illusion of pointing upward, and more than enough to fill my hands. Soft. I know they will be.

Yeah, I'm a sick bastard. But I doubt any guy would blame me. And I can't help myself. When I'm not thinking about her breasts, or the narrow dip of her waist and the rounded curve of her fine ass, I'm thinking about her voice, that syrup-thick southern drawl that makes my skin prickle. I'm in the South now. Accents like hers surround me on a daily basis. Why it is that her voice affects me more than others, I don't know. Nor do I care. She talks and I want to listen. Endlessly.

I've got it bad. Bad enough to be sporting semi-wood in the middle of a crowded room. And she's not even here.

I take a sip of water, not really listening to the chatter around me. What does she do on her nights off? Frequent clubs? Hang out at a coffee house and chastise unsuspecting men on the unfairness of the glass ceiling? That makes me smile. I love the way her pert nose scrunches up when she's irritated and her wide blue eyes narrow into slits. Like she won't hesitate to kick someone's ass if she thinks they deserve it. Totally hot.

The water I'm drinking is warm and tastes of plastic. I set the bottle down harder than necessary. An antsy, irritable feeling grows within me. I don't want to be here. I've heard all these stories and jokes a thousand times before. And while I love my guys, I'm bored. I want to hunt down Emma Chamberlain, rattle her cage, and see what she throws at me. But I don't know where to start looking. And it pisses me off.

I'm about to tell Gray that I'll see him tomorrow, maybe hit the sack in an effort to at least try to get some needed sleep, when I feel a familiar tightening in my groin and along my back.

I have no explanation for how or why it is that I know when she's near. I just do. Like a magnet to metal, my body swivels and my head lifts. And there she is.

Everything stops. My heart in my chest. My brain function. Fuck me sideways. Just someone stick a fork in me. I'm done. She isn't in her standard t-shirt and jeans, or one of her soft little sweaters. She's in some strappy top that barely contains her breasts, those creamy, beautiful breasts that bounce and jiggle with each step she takes. Those breasts are going to be the death of me. I'm afraid I've audibly groaned.

And damn if I'm not the only one who's noticed her. Too many eyes are glued to her chest. My hands clench. I'm no different than them, maybe worse, because I've made a habit of staring at her. But I'm itching to smack heads, send those eyes forward and off of her. I also have the sudden urge to whip off my shirt and tuck her into it.

She makes her way farther into the room, and I see the skirt. A swishy black thing that clings and sways around her pale thighs. Strong yet soft thighs that I know would feel so good parting for me, that would wrap me up and hold me tight. Je-sus.

A frown mars her face, drawing her light brown  brows close and pinching her lips. If there is anything I love more about her than her breasts, it's her lips. Deep pink and plump, those lips entrance me. Lips I've wanted to kiss since I first laid eyes on them.

She isn't happy to be here. And she scowls back at a pair of girls who look at her as if she's an intruder. I know those girls. Sports groupies. "Cock Jugglers" are what Gray calls them. And though it's crude, it's fitting. They've serviced more than half the team. Ugly experience has taught me to keep far away from them. I don't like the smirks they're giving Emma. She shouldn't be here. We shouldn't. I want to take her out of here and just drive somewhere. Maybe to that coffee house in my imagination. I'd be happy to have her lecture me on all the ways I annoy her.

Her eyes scan the room as if seeking a way out.

Look this way, I tell her in my head. Look at me. Give me those wide, blue eyes. Lock them on to me with that intensity I feel down to my bones.

Look at me.

Look at me.

As if she hears me, her pale shoulders tense, and my body seizes with hot anticipation. Her long lashes sweep upward and, bam, those eyes find mine. It's like being blindsided, only heat and breathless pleasure overwhelms me instead of pain.

Her full lips part as if she's taking a shocked breath, and I find myself doing the same. Jesus, I want her. She watches me, a mixture of anxiety and raw excitement gleaming in her eyes. I need to find a way to erase that anxiety. I need to know her better. Nothing on earth is stopping me from going to her.

Adrenaline rushes through my veins and my heart rate increases. Game on.