Page 19 of The Turning of the Tables

“But elves can’t eat meat, can they?”

“No, no they definitely cannot,” Elliot confirmed. “He’dbeen out for less than thirty-six hours, and we had to go right back in.”

I shook my head, eating a few more fries. “To be fair, that absolutely sounds like something Hart would do, though.”

He laughed. “I guess you know him pretty well, then?”

I shrugged. “Not well enough to know his name, apparently.”

Elliot snorted. “To be fair, I think there are less than a dozen people in the world who are allowed to call him Val, and I think all of us except Taavi have known him since he was a kid. I wouldn’t take that personally.”

“Fair enough.” I smiled.

“You work together a lot?” he asked, then.

I nodded. “We used to. I’m homicide CSI,” I replied. “So I’ve worked with most of the detectives. I got pretty good at not accidentally triggering anything at the magical scenes and I didn’t lose my shit, so he started asking for me. We did a lot of cases together before he left the RPD.” I shrugged. “And he kept asking me to look at things after he moved to BTV. Not so much anymore, though.”

“Funny that the FBI would be secretive,” he remarked dryly.

“I know?” I replied, feigning surprise. “I was absolutely shocked.”

That earned me a chuckle.

The server appeared with our sandwiches—a Frances for me, and a Van Buren for Elliot. I slathered the mayo on my sandwich, looking forward to the fried fish and spicy slaw. Elliot had already taken a bite, and hummed softly with pleasure at the taste.

“Everything you hoped for?” I asked him, grinning.

He chewed and swallowed. “I asked for pastrami, and you have brought me to damn good pastrami.”

I saluted him with a fry. “Ask, and you shall receive.”

I gruntedas my back hit the mattress, Elliot bent over me, his hazel eyes bright and his skin flushed. He’d stripped me as soon as the hotel door clicked closed behind us, although he hadn’t yet pulled off my shorts. He followed me onto the bed, his hips pushing my legs wide as he ran his hands up the outside of my thighs.

Elliot was still wearing his jeans, although I’d managed to get his shirt off him before he’d thrown me down. If I hadn’t known he was a shifter already, that might have been a clue, given that I was a good four inches taller than he was and probably thirty pounds or so heavier. It wasn’t something I’d ever experienced before, but as far as I was concerned, Elliot could throw me as often as he liked.

Under my shorts, it was abundantly clear how much I was enjoying the rough feel of Elliot’s hands and the strength of his grip as his fingers dug into my hips. He ground against me, the fabric of his jeans stiff—over something stiffer—against the sensitive flesh trapped beneath the knit cotton.

I tried to get my hands on the buttons of his jeans, but my fingers fumbled as he literally ripped my shorts off me, the sound of tearing fabric loud over our panting breaths. I gasped as one hand gripped my balls, then slowly began massaging, sending a sweet ache through my cock and tightening my belly.

“Tell me what you want,” Elliot growled.

“Your cock,” I managed.

He let go of me, stripped off his jeans, and grabbed the lube out of the bedside drawer. The softsnickof the lid,and then I moaned as one of those rough fingers drove into me.

“That’s it.” His voice was almost a purr, but there was gravel in it—the sound at once pleased and aggressive, sending tingles down my spine. “Relax for me.”

He pushed in a second finger, curling and stretching. I let my head fall back, allowing Elliot to do whatever he wanted to my body, his fingers playing me like a harp, each movement sending vibrations through me.

“Are you ready for me?” he asked.

“God, yes.”

The burn as he pushed into me told me I probably wasn’t—close, but it hurt. Not terribly, although to the point that I knew I’d be sore, that walking and sitting would be awkward for a little while.

And I didn’t care.

It felt like I couldn’t quite draw a full breath, the muscles in my whole body too tense, the feeling of Elliot moving in and through me too full, too tight—and absolutely perfect.