the hook-up. {ethma}

chapter 9

emma chamberlain

*mature content from here on for the rest of the book, if uncomfortable do not read this book*

THE HOUSE IS bigger than it looks from the outside. Upstairs is a warren of long, dark hallways, stretching out in two L-shaped wings. Several rooms are occupied, the sounds coming from within them leaving little doubt as to why. The hall is empty—people probably going back downstairs as soon as they realized that they aren't going to get to make use of the rooms themselves.

I walk along, discreetly listening to doors to find one that's silent. I need the bathroom and am not willing to walk in on anyone before I find it.

Thankfully a small bath near the end of the hall is unoccupied. Once inside, I take a deep breath and let it out slowly. It's blessedly quiet here, the blaring bass of the music a muted thud. My skin is flush, and my heart is still beating too hard. It's like I've run a mile in a minute. Worse, part of me wants to go back downstairs where he is.

Cursing, I run cold water over my hands and splash some on the back of my neck. In the reflection of the mirror, my cheeks are pink and my eyes are shining. I look excited.

"Hell."

I pat myself dry and, taking another calming breath, leave the bathroom. And practically run into someone. My shoulder hits the cool wall behind me as I step back to get away. Dolan stands there, his expression bemused as if he hadn't expected me to pop out at him. Then he moves closer, taking my air, and my thoughts scatter. His eyes, intense and determined, are all I see.

And all I can think of is that we are alone together. Utterly. Finally. I can't look at him then. Not directly. He is the sun, burning bright.

"Why are you here?" My voice is a wisp of sound in the small space.

So is his. "I want you."

The floor dips beneath me, his confession taking up too much air. Dolan seems just as shocked by his words, his eyes going wide and his lips parting. But he commits to them with a squaring of his broad shoulders. "Tell me you don't want me too, and I'll go."

My mouth opens, a denial on my lips, then he reaches for me. It's barely a touch, just the tips of his fingers on my elbow, as if he's planning to guide me back downstairs. It's the smallest of contact. Nothing really. And yet it's everything. The small contact burns, ripples outward along my skin with lightning fast intensity, and my breath hitches.

His does too. A quick glance up, and he searches my face as though seeking an affirmation. Whatever he sees must tell him that he's not alone in this because he doesn't let go.

Neither of us says another word. Blood rushes hot and thick through my veins, as the backs of his fingers skim slowly, oh so slowly, up my arm. His pulse thrums, quick and visible just beneath the golden skin of his throat. I want to lick that spot, put my mouth there and suck. I want him. I want him so badly that I'm going up in flames.

A quiet, pained sound escapes me as his knuckles drift toward my inner arm, just to the side of my breast. I'm shaking deep within myself, an increasing tremor that spreads outward, until my breath comes in choppy pants that I fight to control.

What am I doing? This is Ethan Dolan. Nothing good can come of this. I need to be strong. I need to stop this. To walk away.

I twitch, leaning into his touch, wanting, needing him more.

His lips part with a sigh, as if touching me is both a relief and a source of pain. Somehow my hand settles on his hip, the bone solid beneath his skin. He tenses, a visible clench that has his biceps bunching. The next instant, my fingers steal under his shirt.