"The ache is worse everywhere else," I say, trying for another inch. I'm straddling his thighs now and he is so, so hard. The evidence of it against my bare center makes thinking nearly impossible. "Please, Elias. Won't you make me feel better?"
His powerful frame goes utterly still.
It's like watching a predator stop mid-stalk. Every muscle locks. His chest rises and falls in shallow, controlled increments. Like that's the only thing standing between now and something irreversible. "You don't know what you're asking for."
I laugh—surprised by the sound of it in the quiet cabin. Dig my fingers into his shoulders, feel the dense muscle shift under my grip. "I know exactly what I'm asking for. And believe me, I've never before been given the privilege of knowing what I want, much less asking for it."
"I'm not the right man for you." His eyes widen slightly, like he didn’t mean to betray the thought. “For this."
I skate my hips forward and back, just a few inches.
My eyes nearly roll back in my head. Pleasure skewers every nerve ending between my thighs, sharp and deep and desperately not enough. His groan this time is guttural—dragged up from somewhere low in his chest—and the sound of it does as much to me as the friction does.
"Looks like you're perfect for this," I breathe. "Because you want me."
I lean forward, let my chest graze his. My nipples catch against the hard plane of his chest and tighten instantly to stiff,aching points, the soft nap of the t-shirt scraping against them in a way that draws a sharp inhale out of me. Another rough breath falls from his lips, his hands flexing on my thighs.
The amber light catches the planes of his face, the old scars on his chest and shoulders, the rigid set of his jaw. He's barely holding on and I can feel it. In the tension humming through every inch of him, in the way his fingers keep tightening and releasing against my skin like he can't decide what to do with his hands.
"All my life, all men ever see in me is a doll they could mold and undress and play with," I say, holding his gaze. "A woman they can acquire along with a piece of territory and a truckload of weapons. But you see me, Elias. You make me see myself."
He draws his head back and considers me. Long and slow and so intensely focused that I feel it like a physical thing, like heat from the stove, like pressure against my skin. It makes me want to melt and hold perfectly still at the same time.
"Unless," I say, rolling my hips in that slow pull and push again, watching his jaw tighten, "you're saying you don't find me attractive. And this—" I press down just slightly, feel him throb against me, "—is not for me."
8
ELIAS
The woman is a witch, no doubt about it.
I know this because I'm still here—still breathing, still present.
The nightmare's usual hollow aftermath is already fading at the edges instead of dragging me under for hours the way it normally does. The cold sweat cooling on my skin, the phantom sounds still ringing faintly in my ears, the weight of all those bodies I can't put down—all of it receding faster than it ever has.
Because of her. Because she climbed on top of a thrashing ex-military man in the dark and put her hands on him and called him back.
I've never recovered from one that fast. Not once in fifteen years.
Witch.
And yet, as my hands greedily cup her hips and stroke her thighs, as her tits graze my chest, as her warm breath coats my lips—jasmine and sleep and something underneath it that is purely her—I know that she's all flesh and heart and naked desire.
The heat of her bare core seeps through my sweatpants, soaking into me, making my cock strain against the material with single-minded intent. I can feel every soft inch of her where she's pressed against me, the give of her thighs against my hips, the soft weight of her hands on my shoulders.
If I accept what she's offering me, if I give her what she's begging me for, how will I return her when the time's right? Can I return to my barren existence once I taste her sunshine and warmth?
Already, I feel the tendrils of her affection snaking around me, binding me to her, burrowing deep. That she would approach me when I'm lost in the throes of a nightmare because she couldn't bear for me to be in pain unmans me. The bruise on her jaw guts me. And yet, all it took was her touch on my skin, her body anchoring my soul back into mine to pull me clear.
"So it is true," she says, lush lips pouting. "You don't want me. I heard my stepsisters say all men wake up with…" she scrunches her brow and it's the cutest thing I've ever seen, "wood."
I tighten my grip over her jaw. "You're smart, brave, and beautiful, Princess. How could any man not want you?" The words slip out of their own will. "But I'm not?—"
She presses a finger against my mouth. "I know that you don't want me here, that I'm an unwanted burden. But for me, this is one window out of my own life. I don't know what the fallout from the shooting will be, what I'm going to go back to. The only person who's ever cared about me, my brother Marco," her throat moves on a ripple as she swallows, "I have no idea what condition he's in. So for a few days, I'm making the choice to live the way I want. Are you going to deny me that chance?"
The last thread of my control rips at the flash of fear I see in her eyes. That her future is bleaker than mine is a given. And yet here she is, grasping life with both hands. "No," I say, pushingthe word out. "But you should know that you might be making a bad bet. I haven't done this in a long time."
Naughtiness sparkles in her eyes. "How long?"
