1
The smell of cheap tequila and spilled beer was a physical weight, pressing against my chest until I could barely breathe. I shouldn’t have come to this party. I should be at home, buried under my duvet, eating cereal out of the box and watching whatever mindless reality show made my own life look less like a dumpster fire.
Instead, I was standing in the corner of a frat house basement, clutching a lukewarm Solo cup like it was a life raft.
"You’re doing it again," Ava whispered, leaning into my shoulder. My best friend was a saint for dragging me out tonight, but she was also a liar if she thought this was helping. "You’re looking for him, Soph. Stop. He’s not worth the mascara you used today."
"I'm not looking for him," I lied. The words tasted like ash.
I was looking for him. I had been looking for Mark since the moment we walked through the door. For three years, Mark was the sun and I was the planet caught in his orbit. We were the "High School Sweethearts." The couple that was supposed to make it. Then we got to U of M, and suddenly, Mark decided he didn't want a girlfriend who knew his childhood fears and liked his mom’s lasagna. He wanted "growth." He wanted "exploration."
Translation: He wanted to screw anything with a pulse that didn't remind him of home.
"Oh, shit," Ava muttered, her grip tightening on my arm.
My gaze followed hers, and my heart didn't just break—it disintegrated. There he was. Mark. He was leaning against a beer pong table, his arm thrown carelessly around a girl with platinum blonde hair and a skirt short enough to be a belt. He was laughing. That loud, barking laugh that used to be reserved for my jokes.
He didn't look like a guy who had ended a three-year relationship four days ago. He looked like he’d just won the lottery.
"I have to go," I choked out, the tequila in my cup suddenly feeling like poison. "I can't be here, Ave. I'm going to throw up."
"Soph, wait—"
I didn't wait. I shoved through the sweaty, grinding bodies, ignoring the annoyed grunts as I shouldered my way toward the stairs. I needed air. I needed to get away from the sight of him moving on while I was still struggling to remember how to take a full breath.
I burst through the back door into the cool night air, stumbling toward the porch railing. My lungs burned. It was pathetic. I was twenty years old, and I was losing my mind over a boy who had probably forgotten my middle name the second he saw a pair of fake tits.
"That's a lot of emotion for a Thursday night."
The voice was deep—a low, melodic rumble that vibrated right through the soles of my shoes.
I didn't turn around. I couldn't. My eyes were stinging with the kind of tears that make you look like a swamp monster, and I didn't need an audience for my breakdown. "Go away."
"Not a chance," the voice said, closer now. I heard the scuff of boots on the wood, and then a body was leaning against the railing next to me.
I peeked through the curtain of my hair. My heart skipped a beat, and for once, it wasn't because of Mark.
Eli Underwood.
I knew who he was. Everyone knew Eli. He was the kind of guy who didn't just walk into a room; he took possession of it. Dark hair, eyes the color of a stormy sea, and a mouth that looked like it was designed for two things: lying and making girls scream. He was the campus god of one-night stands, a walking "Do Not Enter" sign for any girl who valued her sanity.
"You're Sophie, right? Sophie Reed?" He didn't look at me. He was staring out at the dark backyard, a half-smirk playing on his lips.
"How do you know my name?" I wiped my eyes aggressively with the back of my hand.
"I pay attention," he shrugged. Finally, he turned his head, and the sheer intensity of his gaze made me feel like I was standing too close to a fire. "And right now, I’m paying attention to the fact that you look like you’re about to jump out of your skin. What’s the matter, Reed? Someone piss you off?"
"My life is a joke," I snapped, the bitterness finally bubbling over. "My boyfriend—my ex-boyfriend—is inside acting like I never existed. We were together for three years, Eli. Three years. And he replaced me in ninety-six hours."
Eli let out a soft huff of air. "Sounds like he’s a fucking idiot."
"He's not an idiot. He's just... he's Mark. Everyone loves Mark."
"I don't," Eli said simply. He stepped closer, invading my personal space until I could smell him—something that smelled like sandalwood, expensive bourbon, and pure, unadulterated trouble. "In fact, I think he’s a colossal tool. And the fact that you’re out here crying over a tool like him? That’s the real tragedy."
"You don't know anything about it," I whispered, though I didn't move away. My skin was tingling everywhere he was near.
"I know enough," he murmured. He reached out, his long fingers grazing my jawline, tilting my face up to meet his. His touch was electric, a sharp contrast to the cold wind. "I know you’re the prettiest girl in that house. And I know that if you walked back in there on my arm, Mark wouldn't be laughing anymore. He’d be choking on his own tongue."
My breath hitched. "Are you offering to be my fake boyfriend, Eli? Because I’ve read that book, and it doesn't end well."
Eli laughed—a dark, grainy sound that went straight to my thighs. "I don't do fake, Sophie. And I definitely don't do 'boyfriend.' But I’m a big fan of distractions. And you look like you need the mother of all distractions tonight."
He didn't wait for me to answer. He leaned in, his nose brushing against mine. The world narrowed down to the heat of him and the way his eyes darkened to almost black.
"Come home with me," he said, his voice dropping to a gravelly whisper. "One night. No past, no future. Just me making you forget that Mark ever fucking existed."
I should have said no. I should have walked away and found Ava. But then I looked through the glass door and saw Mark lead that blonde girl toward the stairs, and something inside me finally snapped. The "good girl" who followed the rules was dead. Mark had killed her.
"One night," I whispered.
Eli’s smirk turned into something predatory—and something strangely hungry. "One night."
I wasn't a good person. I didn't pretend to be. I liked my life exactly the way it was: fast, loud, and devoid of any emotional clutter. I had a reputation on this campus, and I worked hard to maintain it. If you wanted a guy to hold your hand and call you sweetheart, I wasn't your man. If you wanted to see god for two hours and then have me gone before the sun came up? I was your guy.
But Sophie Reed was different.
I’d seen her around for years. She was the girl in the background. The quiet one. The one who was always attached to that golden-boy prick, Mark. She was too soft for a guy like me. Too sweet. She looked like she tasted like strawberries and sunshine, and I was more of a black-coffee-and-cigarettes kind of guy.
But seeing her on that porch, trembling and broken? It did something to my internal wiring. It made me want to break something. Preferably Mark’s face.
When she agreed to come back to my place, I expected her to get cold feet. Most girls like her did. They wanted the idea of a guy like me, but the reality was usually too much for them.
Sophie didn't blink.
We didn't talk much in the car. She sat in the passenger seat of my Jeep, staring out the window, her hands trembling in her lap. I wanted to reach over and grab her hand, but I didn't. That wasn't the deal.
The second we stepped inside the hockey house, the air changed. It wasn't just tension anymore; it was a goddamn electrical storm. I barely had the door shut before she was turning toward me, her eyes wide and desperate. Thank God the guys were still out.
"Eli," she started, but I didn't let her finish.
I grabbed her waist and pulled her flush against me, my hands finding the curve of her ass through that thin silk dress. She let out a small, startled gasp, her hands flying up to my chest.
"Don't think, Reed," I growled, burying my face in the crook of her neck. She smelled even better than I imagined. Like vanilla and something floral. "I told you. No past. No future. Just right now."
I bit the sensitive skin just below her ear, and she let out a moan that vibrated against my sternum. That was it. My self-control, which was usually pretty fucking solid, went up in smoke.
I backed her against the door, my mouth finding hers in a kiss that was anything but gentle. I wanted to devour her. I wanted to leave my mark on her so deep that no matter how many high school sweethearts she had, she’d always feel me underneath her skin.
Sophie wasn't passive. She climbed me like a tree, her legs wrapping around my waist as she whimpered into my mouth. Her hands were in my hair, pulling, demanding more.
"Bedroom," she choked out between kisses.
"Now," I agreed.
I carried her down the hall, my pulse drumming in my ears. I kicked my bedroom door open and tossed her onto the mattress, not giving her a second to breathe before I was on top of her.
Clothes were stripped away with a frantic, desperate energy. When she finally lay beneath me, naked and flushed in the dim light of my bedside lamp, I stopped. I had to. She was the most beautiful thing I’d ever seen, and a sudden, sharp pang of something that felt dangerously like feeling stabbed me in the gut.
"You okay?" I asked, my voice sounding like I’d swallowed glass.
Sophie looked up at me, her chest heaving, her eyes searching mine. "Don't stop, Eli. Please. Just... make me forget."
I didn't stop.
I took her slow at first, wanting to feel every inch of her. She was so tight, so responsive, every touch drawing a new sound from her throat. But as the night went on, the "casual" part of the deal started to slip.
The sex was incredible—the best I’d ever had, and it wasn't even close—but it was more than that. It was the way she looked at me when she peaked, like I was the only person in the world. It was the way she didn't pull away when it was over.
Usually, this was the part where I started looking for my phone or thinking about a graceful exit.
Instead, I found myself pulling the covers over both of us. I tucked her head under my chin, my hand resting on the small of her back. She was already drifting off, her breathing evening out against my chest.
I should have left. I should have gone to the couch.
But I didn't. I stayed. I stayed until the sun started to bleed through the curtains, watching her sleep and realizing that I’d just broken the cardinal rule of being Eli Underwood.
I was considering her. And I had a feeling this was going to be a fucking disaster.
