Chapter 7 Sex on the beach

Date = 27 March

Same night.

Place = San Francisco (Palace of Fine Arts)

Same place.

POV - Enrique

I gnash my teeth so hard I might crack a molar.

I hate Brian Cruise more than Jackson hates feelings, and vice versa. As for Damion's feud with Graham - it can probably fuel a decade-long reality show.

Aria, I might excuse, since she doesn't know any of this. But my sister ... she bloody knows pretty darn well.

Both girls sneak a glance in our direction, then share a look - that conspiratorial, trouble-brewing expression I know all too well.

Yup. I've known Mel her whole life. And this ... this has Mel's mischievous fingerprints all over it - the express lane to hell, paved with glitter, sass, and betrayal. And she's taking Aria with her - willingly or not - that part I still need to figure out.

I feel the temperature rise in my skull. And then, as if the universe is mocking us, One Direction sings enthusiastically over the speakers.

'Everybody wanna steal my girl

Everybody wanna take her heart away'

"What the fuck are they doing?" Damion chokes out, voice low and deadly, his mouth a tight, grim line as Brian and Graham lead our women toward the dance floor.

He's simmering.

And so am I.

Brian pulls Aria into his arms like he's claiming her. His eyes find mine across the room - cold, calculated - and then that menacing smirk. Smug, taunting as if to say he's going to take her, and there's nothing I can do.

And just like that, I see green. Not metaphorically. Not poetically. Viscerally.

'Couple billion in the whole wide world

Find another one 'cause she belongs to me'

For the first time in my life, jealousy scorches through me, feeding the fire already roaring in my chest. It mixes with all the cropped-up shitty feelings I've never felt and threatens to explode.

My face turns crimson, veins pulsate with pent-up fury in my neck, as I clench my fists, knuckles white with the intensity of my rage.

I may not be prone to violence, nor am I the fighter my brother is, but if pushed too far, I can be a formidable opponent. And Brian Cruise just stomped over my line with his fucking Brunello Cucinelli Cordovan Derbys.

So gay, by the way. A real man wears custom-made boots.

At the exact same moment, Damion and I move. No words. No plan. Just fury and blood instinct.

The force of his footsteps leaves indelible imprints on the floor, each stride a testament to the restless anger coursing through his veins.

Mine lands like thunder just behind, the floor practically remembering each one.

His eyes are locked on Graham like a sniper taking aim. One day, Mel will go too far with her little pranks. Today might be that day, looking at his face.

And I'm no better. The violent heat inside me is unfamiliar - brutal and alive. I bite down on my lip hard enough to taste blood. It's metallic, hot, and grounding.

Is this what Jackson feels? This constant hum of rage that needs somewhere to go. Is that why he fights?

Damion reaches them first. His expression is carved from stone as he grabs Mel - not roughly, but with enough force that tells her she screwed up more than enough.

Her smirk falters, eyes flicking to his face. She sees it. The fury. The disappointment. The danger.

And just like that, she folds. Staggers back like the wind's been knocked out of her, hands scrambling for the edge of the nearest table, gripping it as if it's the only thing stopping her from sinking. Her fingers dig into the hard surface of the table, as if seeking an anchor in the storm of her panic, desperate for something to hold onto.

I inwardly smile. For the first time in her life, someone can make my sister fall. Get her into line. Make her regret. Conform even. Maybe this thing works both ways. Maybe girls feel the same helplessness men feel.

"Ah, the murdering golden boy came to rescue his girl." Graham's voice slices through the room like shattered glass - sharp, deliberate, laced with venom and seething contempt. Each syllable aims to draw blood with surgical precision.

Brian and Aria freeze mid-step. He doesn't remove his hand from her shoulder, and she looks too stunned to speak, her face caught somewhere between confusion and dread.

Graham isn't done.

"Are you going to kill me, too?" Graham continues his bantering. "Or do you need your buddies to do your dirty work?"

I stiffen. That last part doesn't make sense - Damion doesn't need backup. He's more than capable of waging his own wars.

The room tightens. Like it's holding its breath. Tension coils in the air, thick and electric, as if the whole place is bracing for the impact of an impending storm.

But the storm never hits.

Damion doesn't say a word. Not one.

His jaw ticks. His fists clench, held tightly at his sides - rage barely caged. But he doesn't explode.

Instead, with a terrifying calm that only years of mastering self-control through his rules can produce, he takes Mel by the wrist and walks her back to our table. He leaves her there and disappears.

Graham is left alone on the dance floor, smirking at no one.

Respect.

And Mel? She's in for it. No doubt. She poked a devil and thought she'd get away with it. Whatever wrath is coming - she earned it. And I won't be shedding a single tear.

Now it's my turn to get my girl in line.

I glance over to where Brian is standing - too close - his hand casually draped on Aria's shoulder like he owns the air around her.

"Hey, Brian."

He turns to look at me, and just like clockwork, his expression shifts into full-blown irritation. Brows furrow, mouth tightens, a little snarl slipping through - textbook Brian whenever we're in the same zip code.

I remove his hand from Aria with a light touch and slip my fingers through hers instead.

He notices. Of course he does.

"Ah, Enrique," he says with that oily smile, eyes dipping to our joined hands. "Didn't realize Aria was your girl." Such a blatant lie. He clearly knew.

"Huh. And here I thought she was my fan." He turns back to Aria with mock surprise. "Since this is about our fourth meeting since yesterday, Babe, I was starting to think you're following me."

'Na na na na na na (oh, yeah)'

My head snaps to Aria for a response. Four times? You don't just coincidentally run into someone four times in a day.

She fidgets restlessly beside me, her loose hand twitching at her side like she doesn't know what to do with it. She's not meeting my eyes. Her whole body is tense, like she's vibrating from the inside out.

'Na na na na na na (allright) na na na na na na'

What the hell is this?

My mind trips over itself, cartwheels through every terrifying possibility. Each one more terrifying than the last, as panic hijacks my rationality. Did she fall for him? Is there something going on I can't see?

"I'm not your fan," Aria snaps, her voice low but burning.

Her eyes are smoldering now - not the flickering warmth I love, but something angry, raw. I've come to know that look pretty well this past week, and it always means one thing - someone stepped on her toes.

So ... she doesn't like him?

Brian smirks. "Oh, right. My bad. Just figured, you know, since you were basically tailing me yesterday ... "

He flicks that smug little challenge at me. Trying to light the fuse. Daring me to blow it.

I don't blink.

"Anyway," he adds with a shrug, turning back to Aria, "must've misread things. You should have told your boyfriend about us." He lets that hang there - heavy, vague, sharp-edged.

"There's nothing to tell," Aria says, voice like ice. "You're not that important."

Then, like she's slamming a door shut, she turns her back to him and grabs me - arms around my neck, pulling me close in front of everyone. I barely have time to react before she's pressed against me like she's trying to erase the space Brian stood in.

Brian's smile twitches. Then vanishes. He walks off stiffly.

What the hell just happened?

"You're gonna explain that, right?" I mutter, jaw tight, trying to keep the edge out of my voice. "Because that didn't look like nothing."

She leans in. "I will. Just ... not here. Please don't make a scene."

'She belongs to me!'

The song ends on a high.

I take a breath, letting the music guide my hands to her waist. She feels soft and solid against me - mine - but my heart's still pounding too fast.

I'm not sure what happened yesterday. But I'm going to find out. A new song starts to play.

'My mother said I'm too romantic

She said, "You're dancing in the movies"

I almost started to believe her

Then I saw you and I knew

Maybe it's 'cause I got a little bit older

Maybe it's all that I've been through

I'd like to think it's how you lean on my shoulder

And how I see myself with you'

I'm not even a big fan of Sam Smith, but right now it feels like the bastard crawled into my head, stole my thoughts, and turned them into lyrics. I lean closer and press my nose into her hair, breathing in that wild peach scent that always seems to short-circuit my brain. One inhale and I'm grounded. Anchored.

Hell, I'm in trouble.

Because this - her - it's not safe. It's reckless. It's dangerous in the exact way that makes me want to lean in closer and not pull away.

'I don't say a word

But still, you take my breath and steal the things I know

There you go, saving me from out of the cold'

Yeah. That line hits too close. Since the moment she moved in, I've been unraveling. My walls are coming down like she's got the blueprint to every defense I've ever built - except she doesn't even know it. She's not trying. She just is. And it's enough to undo me.

'When we fight, we fight like lions

But then we love and feel the truth

We lose our minds in a city of roses

We won't abide by any rules'

It's barely been a week. A WEEK. And somehow, she already feels like home and war at the same time. I don't even know how that's possible. She's chaos and clarity. A threat to everything I thought I'd buried - and I don't even want to stop her.

'Fire on fire would normally kill us

But this much desire, together, we're winners

They say that we're out of control and some say we're sinners

But don't let them ruin our beautiful rhythms

Damn it. This song. It's too much. Too honest. Too real. Is this some sick joke from the universe? Some cosmic reminder that I shouldn't want this - that I'm not allowed to?

Because I do. I want her more than I've wanted anything in years. And yeah, it's messed up. The timing. The situation. Me.

But I'd rather burn with her than feel nothing at all.

'Cause when you unfold me and tell me you ...

Don't say it. Don't sing it. DO NOT finish that line. I can't handle it.

Because I already know - if I ever heard her say those words to me, for real?

I'd be done. Game over. I'd hand her my heart without a second thought.

So maybe the real question isn't whether I should let her go. Maybe it's whether I'm even capable of it.

Then my phone rings - a welcome escape. I slip away from the crowd, searching for a quieter corner.

"Hello, Dean."

Out of the corner of my eye, I spot Amanda stepping directly into Aria's path. Even from a distance, I can see the shift in Aria's expression - tension, discomfort, barely masked fury. What the hell is that vulture saying to her now?

"Enrique, my boy," Dean's voice crackles through the line, smug as ever. "Your girlfriend made the front page again. Have you seen the news?"

Amanda, meanwhile, is glowing - that fake, polished, camera-ready grin stretched tight across her blood-red lips. She taps Aria's shoulder with one sharp finger, and I swear I see Aria flinch. Her arms are crossed, her jaw set. No love lost there.

"Enrique? You still with me?"

Shit. I forgot Dean was even talking.

"Yeah, we'll talk later." I slide my phone in my pocket.

Back at the bar, Aria raises a hand mid-conversation. One small step forward and she's toe-to-toe with Amanda, chin tilted up in quiet defiance. Aria is tallish, but Amanda is taller - easily my height with heels. Aria says something - just a few words - and whatever it is, it lands. Amanda's smile drops like a guillotine. She pales. Her hands curl into fists, knuckles white, as raw hatred flashes across her face.

Without missing a beat, Aria brushes past her and joins Mel, sitting all mopey at the bar.

Mel, she is ... not doing great. Good. I don't even pity her.

She looks tight and wound up, ordering shots like they're on sale, sniffing them theatrically as if they're oxygen, before passing them around to a group of rowdy girls. I recognize a few of them - crew members, mostly. Thalia's also there, laughing too loudly. And now Aria joined the club.

Damion is nowhere to be seen. He must be outside, recuperating. But Mel? She's spiraling. And it's going to get my girlfriend drunk. I need to intervene.

I start moving toward them.

"Enrique! Just the man I was looking for." I'm ambushed by Ron, the overzealous director who is one of those people who can talk a stork to sleep and keep it down for hours. He launches into a monologue about the upcoming movie, as if he's narrating his own documentary. I nod along just enough to seem polite, but my eyes are locked on the bar.

Aria knocks back another shot - something neon green and evil. Then a 'Screaming Orgasm'. A 'Blowjob'. Two more of those. Followed by a 'Sex on the Beach', and a Jägermeister bomb. Then three 'Angel's Tits'. All drinks I've served a hundred times at Inferno. All with one thing in common - they sneak up on you, then hit like a freight train.

I cut Ron off mid-sentence. "Sorry. Gotta go save my girlfriend from death by cocktail. We'll talk later."

"Girlfriend?" I hear him ask behind me as if surprised. Fair. Even I'm surprised.

I throw him a smile over my shoulder and break into a fast stride toward the bar, hoping I'm not already too late.

"Hi, honey," I say gently, stepping up to the bar.

Her mossy-green eyes lift to meet mine, glassy and unfocused, her chin propped lazily in her hand. Yeah - too late. She's absolutely wasted.

"Hi, Sport," she giggles, voice slurring adorably. "Wanna get a blowjob with me?"

My mouth quirks, but it's not just the innocent sound of her laughter that gets me - it's everything. Her tone, her messy hair, the way she looks at me like I'm the only person in the room.

She has no idea what she's doing to me.

Blowjob ... the thought crosses my mind - her pouty little mouth around my dick. I can definitely work with that - and my body reacts immediately, unhelpfully. I adjust my stance, trying not to look like a complete degenerate with a hard-on that's trying to unzip my pants.

The bartender slides another round of shots their way, barely hiding the lust in his gaze. I reach across the counter and grab his arm - not hard, but enough to make him look me in the eyes. One warning glare and he finds a new task real quick.

Aria swirls her finger through the whipped cream topping of the seductive-sounding shooter, and without warning, abruptly slips it into my mouth.

Fuck me.

I take her finger in without thinking, and when she pulls it out with a pop, I feel my control start to slip. She's completely oblivious to the effect she's having on me.

Thalia leans in with a smirk. "This one's a keeper, Playboy."

I unwillingly agree. Now I just need to figure out how to keep her.

"Why don't you skip the next round and go for something tamer?" I suggest. "Maybe an 'Unprotected Sex' like Mel?" I nod toward the non-alcoholic mocktail version, hoping she'll take the bait.

"Nope. Then they'll think I'm MORE pregnant," she babbles, words colliding in the air as she touches my lips with her finger. "Let's have some 'Sex on the Beach' next."

I nearly choke on my breath. She tosses back the next drink like a pro, licking whipped cream off her lips with a content little moan. It's childish. Innocent. But it stirs something raw in me. I've been holding myself back for days - and right now, restraint feels like torture.

I'm putting that on my bucket list of things I want to do with Aria - real sex on a real beach.

"I think it's time to go." I ease her off the stool and shoot Mel a glare, telling her that I will get her back for this.

"Oh, get in line," she snaps. "Damion is probably going to kill me tonight."

"Well deserved," I snigger, no ounce of pity in there, before wrapping an arm around Aria and leading her toward the exit.

In the limo, she curls into my side, cheek resting against my shoulder, her eyes half-lidded. She licks her lips and looks up at me. I swear that dirty little mouth will still taste like sweet cream and hot desire, and I grit my teeth as another jolt of arousal hits me. I'm so stiff, I might cum right here and now.

"You're so freaking hot," she says between hiccups. "And you have beautiful eyes, you know?"

Heaven, help me.

I press my tongue to the roof of my mouth and try to ignore the tension straining my pants. I can't let this spiral. She's drunk. She's vulnerable. And I won't be that guy.

But she's making it so fucking damn hard.

I need a distraction. Anything. "Tell me about Brian," I ask, voice rough.

She frowns, blinking slowly as if it's hard to concentrate. "He bumped into me. Hurt my butt." A hiccup. "I hit a scarecrow guy ..." a burp, "... real good." She throws a lazy punch into the air, missing everything but my heart.

She keeps talking - hiccuping, slurring, rambling something about 'our baby', and about a wheel and a photo and a cup for moods - none of it fully connecting.

" ... but we didn't have sex yet (hic) ..." The main point here is her use of the word 'yet' after the word 'sex'. Now that connects.

"I must see (hic) your thing first ..." Then her small hand lands right on my lap. On me. A very hard me.

Fucking hell!

I jolt. Every nerve fires at once, and it takes every shred of my control not to let out a satisfying sound. I gently move her hand away, placing it on my thigh instead, where it's safe - or at least, safer.

"Oh," she gulls. "Are you shy?"

I sigh. Deeply.

She continues her confusing rambling, unaware of my inner turmoil.

Her voice is drifting now, like her mind's already halfway to sleep. I glance at her. She's nodding off, head resting against me, completely unaware of the fire she's lit under my skin.

I sigh, again, tuck her into my chest, and hold her a little tighter. It's like heaven and hell collided.

The car pulls up to my house, and I lift Aria into my arms, carrying her bridal style through the front door. We don't make it far.

She lets out a low gag.

"Aria - don't you dare -"

Too late.

Warm, sour puke spills down my chest. I grimace, trying not to gag myself. My shirt clings to me, soaked through. The smell is awful.

"Okay. Bathroom. Now."

I place her gently on the cabinet, sitting her upright as best I can. She blinks at me with half-lidded eyes, completely out of it. Before anything else, I yank my shirt off and toss it into the tub.

Then her fingers trace across my bare chest - slow and soft, completely unaware of what she's doing to me.

Crap. My body's already on edge, and this isn't helping.

"Let's get you out of this dress, Batnip," I murmur, holding her steady against me as I find the zipper. The red fabric slips to the floor in a quiet rustle. She shivers slightly, wearing nothing but a matching bra and a tiny red G-string that's doing absolutely nothing to calm my already overworked imagination.

Then, with the seriousness only a drunk person can summon, her hand brushes over the front of my pants and strokes my stiff manhood.

"You're big," she slurs, then hiccups. A little burp escapes, and she grins like she's just told the greatest joke.

I exhale through my nose, hard.

It should be funny - maybe even ridiculous - but it knocks the wind out of me. Because underneath all the teasing and laughter, she trusts me right now. And I can't betray that, no matter how tempted I am.

The lacy red bra is showcasing her delectable tits as a gift right in front of my eyes, and I know if those charmers unleash, I won't be responsible for what happens. So we're keeping that on for now. Together with the sexy thong.

I slip out of my pants and carry her into the shower.

She slumps down on the tile floor with a sleepy sigh. I kneel beside her, rinsing away the mess with warm water, gently running shampoo through her hair, and letting it cascade down her back. She leans into me, arms suddenly wrapping around my neck.

Then her lips are on mine - soft, sweet, tasting faintly of whipped cream and caramel liqueur. Her kiss is clumsy, drunk, unthinking. But still, it sets my whole body on fire.

For a few seconds, I give in. My mouth moves against hers, and I suck her tongue, playfully, hungrily. My arms wrap tight around her, and I pull her into me, my hands trailing over her damp skin, feeling her, memorizing every inch. When she moans, I lose myself completely - until my palm accidentally finds more than it should - her warm pussy. She gives another sweet moan that almost drives me insane, arching her back.

That's when I snap back.

I break the kiss and pull away, breathing hard. She blinks at me, confused, too far gone to understand.

"No," I say aloud - maybe more to myself than her.

I wrap a towel around her, lift her again, and carry her to my room. She's half-asleep by the time I set her on the bed.

Sexually fucked up, I pull one of my T-shirts a little hard-handedly over her head. She sways, arms falling to her sides. I carefully remove her soaked underwear from beneath the shirt, trying not to look, then pull on a pair of my boxers over her hips for good measure. Not for her - for me. Some kind of psychological barrier to stop myself from being an idiot.

Lastly, I tuck her in under the quilt to cover her way-too-sexy body before the need to touch and taste gets overwhelming. Hell, everything about this girl just wants me to throw caution to the wind and fuck her right now.

I sit on the edge of the bed, my hands gripping my knees, trying to cool the burn still pulsing through my blood.

Her voice is barely audible. "Thanks ..."

I glance over. She's curled up like a child, impossibly beautiful, her features soft with sleep. For a moment, I just sit there, watching the slow rise and fall of her chest.

A sharp ache stabs at my chest. Not from lust. From something deeper. Something I've spent years locking away.

Damn it. I didn't want to feel anything for her - but I do.

I drag myself to the bathroom and take the coldest shower I can stand, trying to wash away every kiss, every moan, every ounce of temptation. But her touch is still there. Her voice is still in my ears.

And her effect on me?

Still alive.

When I return, she's sleeping soundly. I slide into bed beside her, pulling her close - not out of desire this time, but something quieter. Protective. Gentle.

I stare at the pillows lying on the ground ... the ones she uses as a barrier at night ... and stick my tongue out at them as she wiggles and folds her body into mine.

No doubt she's going to wake up with a hell of a hangover and feelings of regret in the morning. But I have no regrets.

I yawn, and a feeling of contentment washes over me as I fall into a dreamless sleep.