Page 22 of Things I Wish I Said

Chapter fourteen

GRAYSON

Turns out Ry is a fucking beast at beer pong, though I shouldn’t be surprised.

With everything I know about her and her competitive nature, I should’ve figured we’d be on the winning end of things.

Still, you can’t play this game for long without drinking, and now that we’re on our second game for best out of three—because Cameron’s a sore fucking loser—I’ve downed my fair share of cups in an effort to keep her from drinking.

It’s the one thing I promised her mother to her face we wouldn’t do, yet here I am.

There are only four cups left on Cameron’s side, and five on ours when both Cameron and Trent sink their balls.

I growl and shove a hand into my hair as Ry turns to me, eyes glittering, her smile expectant. “Drink up, buttercup.”

“I can’t. I’ve already drunk more than I should’ve considering I’m driving you home.”

I’m not drunk, not by a mile, but it doesn’t feel right, and I’m not comfortable with getting behind the wheel with Ryleigh if I have anything else. I need to be stone-cold sober, completely fucking present when I’m with her in case something happens or she needs me or she gets sick.

She rolls her eyes and reaches for a cup.

“Uh, what do you think you’re doing?” I ask, circling my fingers around her wrist.

“Drinking our beer.”

“No, you’re not.”

“Aw, come on, man!” Cameron shouts across from us. “Let the poor girl have a drink and stop being such a fucking buzzkill.”

I jerk my head toward him, jaw clenched. “Stay out of it,” I snap, but he just rolls his eyes and laughs.

“We have to drink it, Grayson, or we lose,” Ry says like it’s the worst thing in the world.

“So? We’ll fucking forfeit, then.”

“Hell no!” She chokes out. “Give me that.” She grips the beer, wrenching her hand back as some of it sloshes over the rim of the cup and onto her arm.

With a smile, she drops her head and licks it off, her tongue sliding over her skin, causing my blood to heat, before she brings the cup to her lips and tips it back.

And I’m standing here, too fucking turned on to stop her.

With a grimace, she slams it back on the table while Cameron and Trent cheer, and I work on controlling my breathing.

“One down, one to go.”

“Do not,” I warn as she picks up the second cup. “I swear to God, Ry . . .” I grab her arm, and her gaze dips to my hand. She licks her lips, sending my pulse skittering .

Angry, defiant Ry might be the sexiest fucking thing I’ve ever seen.

“Remember what happened the last time you did that?” she taunts. Clearly, she noticed how affected I was by her little arm-licking trick moments before.

I drop my hand like it’s on fire, which elicits a throaty laugh from her.

“This isn’t good for you,” I hiss so no one else can hear.

Hell, this isn’t good for me! my head warns.

“I’ve been doing every single thing everyone tells me is good for me for the last six months, down to the right kind of food to eat and nontoxic beauty products to use, yet they shoot poison in my veins and call it good for me. Explain how that makes sense.”

When I can’t, she sighs.

“I’m tired,” she says, and I can see it, the weariness in her expression, the shadows beneath her eyes masked by her makeup.

Her earlier words come back to me . . . “I’m tired of being the sick girl.”

“Fine.” I groan, hate that I’m giving in. “But not enough to get shitfaced, you hear me?”

“Okay, Dad,” she teases, and I roll my eyes as she drinks the beer down, then slams the cup on the table while my friends cheer.

Somehow, by the skin of our teeth, we get through the rest of the game with her only drinking one more cup of beer, but when we get to the third game, something shifts.

Maybe it’s my frustration at being unable to control the situation—control her—or maybe she’s starting to feel a little buzzed, but we start losing. Bad.

We barely manage to sink one cup, while Cameron and Trent make shot after shot.

I watch, biting my tongue as Ryleigh downs four more cups and I mentally count the number of beers she’s had in total, and decide it’s the equivalent of three full beers in short succession. With her size and tolerance, she’s not only buzzing but on her way to being drunk, if she isn’t already.

When Cameron scores another shot, she reaches for the cup, but I knock it out of her hand. “Hey!” she protests as it soaks into the grass. “I need to drink that.”

“Like hell you do. You’re done, Sinclair. Done!” I roar.

“Come on, man. We’re just having a little fun. She’s fine,” Trent says, waving a hand in her direction.

“Yeah. At least let her finish the game,” Cameron calls out.

“I am finishing the game,” Ryleigh insists, crossing her arms over her chest in a move of defiance that pushes her tits up.

I grind my teeth, fighting the urge between staring at her tits like the guy in the diner and telling her to fucking drop her arms. “No. You’re not,” I say, winning on both counts.

Turning back to the table, Ryleigh takes her shot with the Ping-Pong ball and misses.

Big fucking surprise .

But when she turns to me and hands me the ball, I chuck it over my shoulder and dip down, my arms wrapping around her thighs as I scoop her up and over my shoulder.

She squeals in protest as I turn from the table with Cameron and Trent roaring in laughter behind me, calling me every name in the book between buzzkill and pussy-whipped.

Like I fucking care.

Call me what you want because I’ve hit my limit.

My only priority is keeping Ry out of trouble, and if she has one more drink tonight, I’ll fucking fail.

“Let me down, you big oaf!” she screams as she pounds my back with her fists and attempts to wiggle from my arms.

“Never.” I laugh.

“My hair! It’s going to fall off,” she hisses.

My steps falter before I decide she’s baiting me. “Better hang on to it, then, because I’m not putting you down until we’re far away from those tables.”

She curses and her hands disappear from my back in an attempt to hold her wig on.

Several people hoot and holler, making comments as we go. I acknowledge them with a smile or a nod of the head, like carrying a protesting girl over my shoulder is an everyday occurrence.

It’s not until we’re on the other side of the yard with enough people sufficiently blocking out the beer pong tables from our line of sight that I release her.

Dipping down, I set her back on her feet, dragging my hands up the length of her as I stand, to ensure she doesn’t stumble .

Her breathing hitches when I reach her hips, her breath turning shallow as I straighten to my full height, towering over her as my hands grip her waist.

“You jerk!” she smacks at my arms. “I was just having fun.”

“Yeah, a little too much.”

She rolls her eyes and turns away from me, headed in the direction we just came from when I hook an arm around her waist and drag her back to me, trying my best to ignore the way her body feels pressed to mine.

I have no idea what she’s doing to me. All I know is she’s driving me crazy in more than one way. It’s both surprising and frustrating.

“You’re not going back there, Sinclair,” I whisper in her ear.

She shivers, then turns in my arms and tips her chin in defiance. “Fine.”

Her supple mouth spreads into a slow smile, the first sign I’m fucked. “You don’t want me drinking anymore?”

I stare at her, my gaze dipping to her mouth. It’s full and pink and still a little glossy despite all the beer she drank.

“Dance with me,” she murmurs.

My stomach squeezes at the same time my head tells me this is bad fucking idea. My heart, on the other hand, ignores my inner voice and sides with my hormones that are begging for an excuse to touch her. I clasp her hand in mine and join the throng of people dancing on the pool deck.

The beat of the music reverberates through my chest as I rest my hands just above her waist and we start to move. I follow her rhythm, trying to keep at least some semblance of distance between us as we dance to the music, but it’s no use.

She smirks, her body curving into mine as if I’m drawing her in. Pressing closer, I shift one hand to the small of her back and we move in sync, one song blending into the next.

The press of bodies surrounds us as the dance floor spreads out farther into the lawn.

I’m barely moving now, just a subtle gyration of my hips as Ryleigh does all the work. She throws her head back, smiling, eyes closed, arms in the air, feeling the music thrum to her bones as she grinds against me.

One arm loops around my neck, and I can feel the beat of the music through the rhythm of her heart. I allow myself to forget about the fact that she’s sick or that I’m the complete opposite of what she needs.

My hooded gaze trails the length of her, past her breasts, to where her tank top has ridden up, revealing a sliver of pale skin I desperately want to touch.

Sweat trickles down my back at the restraint of holding back, and when someone knocks into Ryleigh from behind, I growl, snapping at them like a dog while Ryleigh just laughs.

But that’s how it always seems to go with us.

She’s perpetual fucking sunshine to my blackened heart.

My hands slide to her hips, my fingertips sinking into her flesh as the air between us charges, turning electric. It’s as if each movement is a silent conversation, and when Ry turns around and presses her back to my chest, she’s fucking screaming for trouble.

The rhythm of the music ebbs and flows. Songs change, guiding her movements.

At some point, my head stops working entirely. My body takes over. Whether it’s the heat, the music, the beer, or this fucking girl, I can’t think straight. All I can do is fucking feel.

She grinds her ass into my groin, and I groan. My head drops beside hers as she arches her back into me, hands wrapping around my neck from behind, causing her shirt to rise even higher.

I drop my face down to hers, my breath heavy in her ear while my hand splays over her flat stomach where I imagine gliding south, dipping into the waistband of her shorts.

If she were any other girl, I would. I’d finger her right here. Make her call out my name. Teach her not to defy me again, and to hell with the consequences.

But I can’t.

This is Ryleigh.

Breakable, untouchable, buzzed, and sick, Ryleigh.

With a growl, I remove my hand and hook my arm over her torso instead, my forearm resting just below her breasts as I pull her closer, flush against me, my breath heavy in her ear.

My dick swells, straining against her lower back while I try to calm down, but the moment she gasps, I know she feels me.

I should stop this .

I should take a step back. Take a breather and clear my fucking head.

I start to pull away when she turns around, staring up at me with fire in those tiger eyes as she once again grinds against me.

Her breasts brush against my chest, the touch an electric jolt in my already simmering veins.

I nearly moan, immobile as I watch her move, and when she slows, raking her hands into my hair, I slowly drop my head. Only the most infinitesimal gap of space exists between our parted lips. We’re so close, the space between our parted mouths heating like an electric shock.

The warm caress of her breath teases.

Energy snaps.

The pink dart of her tongue wets her lips, and my stomach clenches with want. I can almost feel her against my mouth. Taste her on my tongue.

This is what boyfriends do, I tell myself.

We’re supposed to be pretending.

This is normal. More than that, it’s natural.

Her hands tighten in my hair, a silent plea I answer by lowering my mouth.

The brush of our lips is so soft, so gentle, so completely opposite of every fucking chaotic thing I’m feeling inside.

A jolt of pleasure rockets through me, so strong I jerk back, unprepared for the effect she has on me.

Her hands fall away, giving me a perfect view of her lust-filled gaze and hooded eyes .

The rapid rise and fall of her chest matches my own as her eyes shift to my mouth once more.

She’s so fucking sexy right now, it physically pains me.

I grimace and take a step back, hating myself for the flicker of vulnerability I see in her eyes as I do. It’s a much-needed reminder of who she is, and who I’m not.

And I’m not the guy for her.

I can’t be.

What the hell did I just do?

“Fuck,” I hiss as I spear a hand through my hair.

And then I do the worst possible thing I can do.

I turn around and leave.