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I just rode Elijah Hastings to the moon and back.
The walking, sex-oozing rock star I’ve been fantasizing about long before I ever met him or his sister—I rendered him speechless.
Everything about being with him was more explosive than if I’d written the scene myself.
The ending was an enormous blast of pleasure, which was then followed by complete humiliation.
I slam the door to my apartment shut and run a hand through the tangled strands of my hair, remembering Elijah’s fingers in it moments ago.
It’s funny how easily such a perfect and wild night can be ruined in a single second.
Then again, did I really expect sex would change anything between us? Elijah is too different from me. We’re from different worlds, and no number of unbelievable orgasms is going to change that.
Instead of placing my keys on their designated hook, where I’ve hung them every day since I’ve lived here, I toss them haphazardly onto the table, along with my purse, then kick my shoes off with a thud against the door.
The second heel nearly hits Elijah’s shin as he throws the door open and storms inside.
In a blink, his two large palms steady my face, and he plants a searing kiss to my lips.
Here I thought he couldn’t get any bolder.
I just wish my flipping heart would grasp the disappointing situation we’re in. Instead, it sputters with glee with each swipe of his tongue.
I wade through the ripples of painful betrayal in my stomach and shove him backward, my lips instantly naked and yearning for his again.
“What we did tonight meant nothing. Not to me and definitely not to you,” I declare, but the tears building in my eyes tell another story. On an exhale, I continue, “You don’t have to come in here and pretend otherwise. There’s no need for you to worry about me getting clingy or that I’ll ask you for anything more. Because I won’t.” I gulp, but the ball of overwhelming emotions in my throat makes it difficult. “It meant nothing,” I repeat.
He strokes the corners of his lips with his thumb and forefinger like he’s trying to touch the taste of me there. What kind of game is he playing?
Scoffing, I don’t wait around for him to say anything else, but he surprises me. “You don’t mean that, Pumpkin.”
I whirl around and jab a finger at his hard chest. “Stop calling me that. I told you from the beginning—we are just temporary roommates. We’re not friends, and we’re definitely nothing more.”
“Things change.” He takes my hand in his and turns it over to trace circles in my palm with his other one, his calm exterior the exact opposite of my shaking form. “Just yesterday, the weather app showed rain for today, but instead, it changed to say there would be sunshine.”
I jerk my hand out of his grasp, the tingles in my palm shooting up my arm to my racing heart. “We aren’t the weather, Elijah.”
His nostrils flare as he goes back to brushing his fingertips along the curve of his bottom lip.
“Besides, Boone was right, wasn’t he?” I hang my head, peering down at my outfit.
When I left for the concert, I felt confident and beautiful—and not just because my friends told me I was. I really believed it.
A stupid part of me even thought it would impress someone as out of my league as Elijah.
Smoothing my damp palms along the sleek fabric of my outfit, I say, “This isn’t my skirt. I did have to borrow it because I don’t own anything half as sexy or cute as this that fits me anymore.” I let out a frustrated breath. “The truth is, you and I are not right together. I’ve seen your type firsthand, and I’m not it.”
“Boone is a fucking idiot. I could kill him for what he said, but it doesn’t matter right now. None of this is about a fucking skirt,” he bites out. “I don’t care about your clothes, Pumpkin.”
He emphasizes the nickname, uttering both syllables with such precision that my toes curl over the hard floor. I try not to flinch—or let the butterflies in my stomach flutter away—but it’s no use.
“I don’t just care about what’s underneath, either. All I care about is you.”
“You don’t know what you want, Elijah,” I toss back. “The last time you stayed here, I walked into the living room to find you fucking some woman on my coffee table. Two hours later, you fucked a different woman on my coffee table. I can still practically see the ass prints on the wood.”
He grimaces and places both hands on his hips, the heavy silence stretching between us in agonizing waves.
Did I really just say that to him? I told him I wouldn’t be clingy or have any expectations, but that’s exactly what I’m doing. I should stop. I should kick him out and vow to never see him again.
