Meant for More

by Liza James

  But it's not. It's never been the three of us with this.

  It's always been me and Bloom.

  "Not this time, Liv. I'm sorry. I wish I could explain, but I have to do this one on my own, okay?" There's no easy way to ask her to stay back. She doesn't know how about the countless nights and evenings spent together, hiding under trucks and away from her parents.

  Liv's family is still a unit. They were always a unit. While my family is run by wealth and status, her family was the support system Bloom and I never had. She went home to hot meals every night, a set of loving and devout parents. They went to every single one of her volleyball games, or mock fashion shows she threw together in the neighborhood.

  Her family didn't have problems like mine and Blooms did.

  She stares at me silently, her hands falling to her sides before she finally wraps them around her chest. I can tell she wants to fight me on this, she wants to push back, but I step away slowly and watch the pull of defeat slip over her features.

  Fuck. This is going to cause problems. I know it is.

  But I have to find Bloom. So, I turn on my heels and jump into my Jeep, whipping out of the street and rushing toward the Theta Si house.

  I tap call on Bloom's number again, hoping she answers before going to voicemail. But nothing, and I voice text her a message while I race through the campus streets.

  Still nothing.

  "Shit, shit shit," I mumble as I toss my phone onto the seat next to me. In my head, I immediately scan through the various places she could be. If she isn't at the house, she could be anywhere. I don't think she would have gone back to our old neighborhood, she stays away from that area as much as possible.

  Her pottery is her connection to her dad, not the home filled with shitty memories and pain.

  Her pottery.

  The studio.

  Her art.

  Shit, she isn't home. I know where she ran off to.

  I'm angry now.

  Is that a reasonable response? I don't even know. My head has spent the last few hours running through every interaction I've ever had with my father. When he would teach me the technique and skills of ceramics, about trimming the bases and different types of clay.

  Then it circles through when he started drinking. The arguments, the fights, the fear.

  The unknown.

  The known.

  Every anticipated outcome and probable regret.

  I hate myself for so many of the things I've said and done. For the times I put things off because I thought I had time to fix them, I thought my dad had time to fix himself.

  I placed the priority on distractions that made me feel good, instead of working my ass off to help fix the things making me feel like shit.

  And that isn't even the entirety of it. Now, I've spent so much time reliving moments of my childhood, I've now worked through conversations with Carter and Liv. All the times I think they've been lying to me about what they're doing or how they're feeling. The fact that Carter wasn't with me when I saw my dad. I know logically, it's not his fault, but it still hurts undeniably.

  The snarky remarks Carter made last night and then the strange things I felt by his Jeep.

  The fact I actually hate the idea of him and Liv together. And the obvious element that I can't do anything to change it.

  I shouldn't want to. But I do, and god, it eats at my nerves and sets a new rage inside of me.

  Then there's Benj. Sweet, kind, assertive, Benj. The guy who's made me laugh and also made me blush from his heated comments and dominant energy.

  I hated the way he talked to my dad when he didn't know who he was. I loathe the fact he was even there when I saw him, when I was trying to convince him to go back to rehab.

  But I appreciated him being there afterward, and I'm frustrated his warm hold and gentle words aren't enough to make me feel something more for him. Why is this my life right now? Why is my head stuck in these spiraling thoughts filled with anger and regret and disappointment?

  Most of all though, I'm angry with myself. For standing by and letting this happen, for staying busy in my art and other things instead of investing in what I needed to.

  For not being fucking present for the last several years of my life.

  "Bloom?" Carter's rough voice calls out from behind me. Damn it. I quickly reach over and turn my music up a bit higher so I can't hear him through the headphones in my ears.

  I'm not surprised he found me. A new wave of irritation rolls across my shoulders and moves through my limbs, my touch, the clay. I'm working on a bowl–just a plain, average bowl. But it's the third time I've tried to shape it and it keeps collapsing at the same point.

  I've made this bowl at least a thousand times over the years. I know what I'm doing, but the emotions I'm drowning in are affecting my technique and routine.

  I can feel him now, and I see the dark shadow of his form off to my right. But I continue ignoring him, and focus on the beat of my music. The energy radiating off his body is dark and looming. God, I can sense everything about him. His heat, his anger, his pain, his need to be here. We've been in this situation so many times before, it's hard not to know exactly what he's thinking.

  Suddenly, the headphones are yanked free of my ears so quickly it catches me off guard. My phone clatters to the ground, the white wire dangling off my leg before falling as well. I whip my head toward his as he crouches down in front of my face.

  "Go away, Carter," I grind out as I turn back to my piece and continue working. But Carter's quick, and his foot kicks mine off the peddle immediately, forcing my wheel to stop spinning. His hand launches forward as his fingers grip my jaw and twist my head toward his again.

  "Say that to my fucking face," he says quietly, and his tone is anything but cruel. He's firm, demanding in this and for some reason, the intensity he's offering me causes tears to spring to my eyes.

  "Go away, Carter," I repeat the phrase again. This time, pausing dramatically between each word. My voice is strained, stuck inside of my throat by the burning sting of needing to be near him. I'm angry and bitter and at the same time, I just want him closer to me.

  He's the only one who gets this.

  "No," he replies dryly. He places both of his hands on either side of my face as he forces me to stay focused on him. "Tell me what happened."

  "I don't want to. I don't want to talk to you, or Liv, or Benj, or fucking anyone. I just want to be alone." I bite out and pull away from his hold. The tears spill down my cheeks, salt slips into my mouth and I absently run the back of my arm across my face in order to brush them away.

  "Yeah? Are you angry?" he asks a stupid question, one that pricks at my skin and sends a new wave of incredulous irritation rolling over my spine.

  "Am I angry?" I ask him, my eyes wide and brows lifted high. "Am I fucking angry, Carter?" I lean back on the bench I'm straddling and straighten my shoulders in his direction. "Yes. I'm pissed. I'm absolutely livid with every single thing that happened today. I saw my dad. My actual dad, who I thought was still in rehab. Who I assumed was getting the help he needs. But I called the facility and they said because they take voluntary patients, they couldn't force him to stay once he decided to leave."

  The tears are now flowing freely down my cheeks, my voice is hoarse with my louder volume and my shoulders are shaking with each sob. "I'm mad at my dad, for fucking drinking and choosing that over me or my family. I'm mad at myself, because I ignored his call last night, Carter. He called me. Before the party, and I ignored it."

  His rough hands hold my face again, his thumbs moving under my eyes as he wipes away the tears that won't stop coming. He shifts closer to me and my hands absently reach up to rest over his, my fingers entwining with his own despite the clay coating my skin. "Keep going," he whispers, opening me up to spew the toxic hate spreading inside of me. The vile emotions, the things holding me down and weighing on every single part of me.

  "I'm angry with you," I whisper, and I squeeze my
eyes shut while my voice breaks over the heated words. "For not being there today. For how things are changing. For not remembering last night."

  "Look at me," he demands, keeping his voice quiet but his tone strong.

  "No," I reply, because I don't want to. I don't want to see him, or watch those blue eyes bore into my own. I don't want to feel his pain alongside mine.

  "Look at me, Bloom." He repeats himself, but this time his hands slide down to my jaw and over my neck, where he pulls me closer to him and holds me even tighter.

  I do as he says, opening my eyes slowly and blinking away the blurry vision from my tears. My fingers remain on his, and for some reason, it feels like the only thing keeping me grounded in this moment.

  "I wish I would have been there," he says, and I can see how genuine he's being. I'm irrationally angry about that—I know. It's not his job to be with me twenty-four seven on the off chance my drunken father shows up out of nowhere.

  "You shouldn't have to be," I force the words out, deliberately pushing myself out of the depressive hole I've thrown myself into. Truthfully, the fact that Carter is even near me right now? That's exactly what my soul was craving, the simplicity of his presence in the midst of my ruin. "I know that. I know it's not your job to act as my security blanket. It's just everything coming down on me at once. I've been wading through all of it, barely keeping my head above water and now my dad? It's the one thing to finally sink me." The rage blazes through my head again and I grip my fingers tightly around his hold while I grind my teeth in my mouth.

  I just want to fucking scream.

  "And this stupid bowl," I snap, releasing my grip on him and kicking the wheel in front of me. "It keeps collapsing! I've made this piece so many times, the process is cemented into my head. But today? Nope. It won't work. I can't keep the walls thick enough to support it." I wave my hands in frustration at the mound of shapeless clay in front of us.

  Suddenly, Carter stands and shifts behind me. He straddles the bench at my back and slides the sleeves of his maroon Henley up his forearms.

  My heart beats a little harder as his chest moves up against my back. I stiffen, and in an instant my head is completely distracted by his presence in an entirely different way. "Uh—" I start, but he quickly grips my waist and scoots us both closer to the wheel. His leg moves around my own so his foot can press against the peddle.

  Strong, rough hands slide over my own, urging me back toward the clay as he leans us both forward. "Come on, Bloom. I don't have all night," he teases, but I can feel his heated breath brush against my exposed shoulder. My skin feels tight all of a sudden, my chest moving up and down with each barely contained breath.

  The wheel slowly begins moving, the slippery clay sliding underneath my hands as he manipulates the pressure. He knows what he's doing because my father showed him a few times. He would come help me, or simply hang out in the studio at our old house when we were younger. I spent so much time there, becoming obsessed with this outlet of creativity and the way I felt when I was consumed by it.

  He presses harder, and pulls one hand free to dip in the fresh basin of water sitting beside us. He brings his touch back to my own, and the cold liquid spills over my hands and the clay in something deceptively erotic.

  I shouldn't feel this way.

  But we're sitting in heavy silence. Our bodies pressed tightly together and my shoulders shift uncomfortably against his frame as he leans even closer to me.

  The energy and tension is building between us, something decidedly wrong, because I know there's something happening between him and Liv.

  Something happening between myself and Benj.

  "Maybe we should go back," I say quietly, keeping my eyes focused on the clay while trying to sound casual.

  "Shhh," he replies as his thumbs brush back and forth over my hands while we work. "Keep going."

  Keep going.

  The two words replay in my head, in my own way, as his touch slowly shifts and moves up to my forearms. His fingers drag the rough texture and chill of wet clay across my skin. Shivers break out over my shoulders when I feel his head lean against me, his lips centimeters away from my flesh.

  I force a deeper breath to calm my racing thoughts, but it distractedly presses my shoulders farther back against him. His hands continue sliding over my arms, his touch warm and firm melting with the feel of the clay.

  My stomach tightens, my back arches just slightly and my hair shifts against my shoulder where I know his lips should be.

  Where I want them to be.

  It's as if he already knows what I'm aching for, because in the same moment, one of his hands moves to gather all of my hair over the opposite shoulder. His fingertips graze against my back, over the thin straps to my pale blue tank top I've got on.

  I continue shaping the piece in front of me, but I'm struggling to remain focused. My head and body are begging to give into whatever this is.

  I should stop.

  My mind logically reminds me again what we should do. And I attempt forcing the words out of my mouth. "Carter," I start, as he finally presses his lips against my skin. In that instant, I've forgotten exactly what I was opposing too. The feel of his body against mine, the energy lighting up in the space between us—it's too much.

  His hands fall to my waist, his thumbs slipping under the edge of my shirt and against my skin. My head tilts to the side and I want to pull away from the clay, but his lips move under my ear, brushing along the soft skin of my neck.

  "Don't stop," he whispers, as one of his hands lifts to the strap of my tank and pulls it off my shoulder.

  "What are you doing?" I say breathlessly, forcing every ounce of focus into my own hands in order to shape the bowl I'm attempting to create.

  "Working out something for myself," he replies, and his lips move against me again. Kissing me, touching me. His fingers press into my skin and slide over my stomach, pulling me back and against him as his hips roll forward.

  I can't help it, a quiet moan falls from my mouth as his tongue sweeps across the places he's kissing.

  The hand at my shoulder releases its hold as he dips his fingers back into the basin of water. Confusion pulls at my mind and a bite of disappointment in my gut when I assume he's going to help with the clay again.

  But I'm wrong. And an entirely new wave of desire works over me when his hand moves to my neck and grips my jaw tightly. Water spills down the front of my shirt, slipping over my chest and my stomach as he twists my face toward him.

  "Carter," I say his name again, this time on a whimpering voice as his hand on my stomach dips lower.

  "Say my name again," he urges, slipping his fingers under the hem of my black leggings and pulling me back against him again.

  His other hand continues holding onto my face and tips me up while his lips move against my jaw. God, I can feel his cock at my back. He’s hard and thick and when he rolls forward, I naturally push back against him.

  "Carter," I moan this time and he shifts my face away so he can whisper in my ear.

  "I remember last night," he finally says, and my core aches for his touch as I move against his hand. I'm wet, my pussy practically throbbing in ways I've never felt before.

  I've been with guys, but none of them have made me feel like this.

  And it shouldn't be happening with Carter. Fuck, I know it shouldn't. But I can't help how badly I want this, how much I'm craving his touch and his presence.

  "How we stood outside of my Jeep and you had to find my keys," his teeth graze across my neck before kissing. "The way your hair fell in front of your eyes and your body pressed up against mine while you searched."

  His fingers move lower, pressing over the top of my core. Tempting me, calling to me, and my hips roll forward while I seek more of his touch.

  "How I felt like I was really seeing you for the first time. Differently than I had before," he keeps going and my head falls back against his shoulder while one hand dips back into the water. H
e brings it over my neck, spilling the water over my chest again. My shirt is soaked, clinging to my tits, and I glance down to see how incredibly hard my nipples are beneath my shirt. I didn't wear a bra tonight, because I wanted to be comfortable and thought I was going to be alone.

  I suck in a breath while my shoulders press farther back against him, our bodies rolling and moving together when his fingers slip beneath my shirt and work over my chest. His thumb brushes over my nipple, and my eyes fall to half-mast while I writhe beneath him.

  "Fuck," he whispers while he looks over my shoulder and watches the ways he's touching me. His hand falls farther down, his finger grazing over my clit while his other hand keeps rolling my nipple in between his fingers. I cry out on a whimper and he turns his face back toward mine while sucking and nipping the skin at the curve of my neck.

  "Please," I beg him, because I keep rolling my hips forward in aching need. God, I just want more of this, more of him. I want to feel him inside of me, and while his cock presses against my back, all I can think about is feeling it sliding in and out of me.

  Over and over and over again.

  "I'm going to make you come," his voice is low, a dark and seductive wash over my skin. It infiltrates every single one of my senses, marking me in ways I've never felt by anyone else. Intoxicating, that's what this is, and I want to drown in his addictive touch.

  "God—" I moan out as his teeth graze over the shell of my ear. I'm nervous as well, because I know I've never gotten off with anyone. Ever. And the tiniest shred of fear and disappointment flickers in my mind.

  All of these warring emotions. Worries, what-if's, hypotheticals.

  But none of it clouds the intensity of what's happening between us. None of it overshadows the electricity, the instant magnetic draw and synchronicity of how we move together.

  This—it has to be different. I know it is for me, and I can't imagine a world in which he's felt this way about anyone else. At least, I'd like to believe that was the case.

  "I've thought about this before," he says, sliding his finger across my clit again before moving lower. "Touching you like this. Listening to the sounds you'd make when I—" Lower. Circling over my opening, teasing it and then pushing inside just as he says, "—fucked you."