Chapter 8
Clare
Chest heaving, Clare leaned into the warmth of Elliott’s palm and closed her eyes, forcing another surge of tears to escape down her cheeks and onto his hands. She detested that her bastard ex-husband still pushed her buttons like that, and worse still, she despised that Eli had witnessed the whole thing.
Dammit.
Elliott’s anger pulsed from his skin, blistering, tangible. His nostrils flared, and his frown was so severe, she was convinced he’d made new wrinkles in his forehead.
It was so fucking hot.
She couldn’t remember the last time someone stepped up to batforher, rather than against. Hell, most days it felt like she was being beaten by the damned bat.
Sure, he couldn’t help her out when she needed him.
Sure, he snapped her head off and hung up on her earlier.
And sure, he’d reduced them to “just friends” to Alex, Mason’s dad, when their history was far more than that, but he’d also defended her.
His presence had been reassuring, encouraging against the dick she’d stupidly married and had Mason with. While she didn’t regret Mason for a second, Alex… Ugh. She wished he was half the man Mason was growing up to be—when he wasn’t losing his shit and saying he hated her anyway.
She hadn’t been at all embarrassed or ashamed that she’d almost kissed Elliott when the douchebag had interrupted them. In fact, she’d been mad he’d stepped in on their moment. Asshole.
Elliott swept his thumbs across her cheeks again, and she breathed him in. Or tried to. Her snotty nose made it impossible, but she imagined that his fresh pine scent met her nose. Pine with hints of musk, bergamot, and maple fucking syrup. Ugh. It curled around the fire blazing inside her body and lessened the raging storm whipping up a frenzy in her mind.
Her heart skittered. His face was so damn close to hers but he just stared at her, his features unreadable. What was he thinking? Did he want to kiss her? Whywasn’the kissing her? Was he waiting for her to make the first move?
Ha. He’d be waiting a long time. Considering how he fucked off, left her alone, and never came back, she was going to make sure he wanted to kiss her before she even considered being the first one to blink.
Except his lips looked so soft, full, and inviting. And he was so goddamn close. If she stuck her tongue out she’d probably reach his plush, Cupid’s bow lips.
“He owes you an apology.”
She snorted. “That sorry excuse for a person has never apologized to anyone a day in his life.” It was easy to make an ex the villain. It gave her somewhere to direct her ire. He wasn’t always an asshole, though, she had loved him once, it was why she married him. She sighed. She’d just not been enough to keep him from straying.
Elliot’s hazel eyes flared wide, the light catching the gold flecks around his left pupil, but he stayed silent. He trailed his thumb across her bottom lip, sending shivers skating across her skin. They’d kissed in high school, fooled around a bit, but when he’d left she’d let resentment and hate build a home where her love and desire for him had lived.
“Open your eyes, Clare.”
She hadn’t realized she’d closed them, but her eyelids fluttered open at his request. He sighed. Was he swooning? It totally sounded like a swoon. Was he just going to stand there staring at her? Fuck, did she have something in her teeth?
Oh Christ, did her breath smell like the pickled beets she’d had with her salad for dinner?
“Shhhh.” Another sweep of his thumb across her lip. Was he shushing her chaotic brain? Could he hear her frantic thoughts?
Maybe he was shushing her heart. It was making so much noise in her chest he had to have heard it. It wasn’t even beating in a delightful rhythm either—it was thrashing around like a toddler trying to avoid putting clothes on.
Even if he had no plans to kiss her, he was distracting her from her asshole ex enough that her blood pressure would be normal if it hadn’t been for the fact Elliott was licking his lips and angling his head.
She didn’t move. She didn’t breathe. She didn’t even dare hope—in case she was misreading the situation entirely.
He lowered his lips to hers and barely grazed her skin. Jesus Christ the anticipation was going to kill her. Fighting the urge to grab his shirt and feast on his lips like a woman starved, she somehow channeled patience and waited.
He pulled back just enough to rake his gaze over her face. Was he searching for permission? Her interest?
Couldn’t he tell that she was only too fucking eager to have his tongue in her mouth? Or any other part of her body, for that matter. Wasn’t it written across her face?
“It’s been so long, Ceecee.” His voice was pained, tormented, like he’d experienced the same anguish she had. “I’ve missed you so much.” Another brush of his lips against hers, but this time, she pressed back against him more firmly. It was as though her permission released something inside him.
