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While I was pondering, Luc and Eli finished their chat and, in whatever man-code they used, they were done. Luc opened the door, and Eli tossed him the car keys. The whole thing was seamless, efficient, and infuriating. I couldn’t blame it on species differences. Luc was human. It was just man-code.
Mutely, I followed Eli to his office. He unlocked the door and motioned me inside the room. It was a sort of understated posh that was a part of the persona Eli had in this world. Just a guy who ran a bar in a boozy city. Nothing to see here. Move along. Functional wooden desk, functional leather chair. If the buttons were stone and the desk had a stone inlay, it was not odd. Pretty and simple. Plants cluttered the window and the–wooden again—file cabinet. Cut glass decanter and highball glasses. The rug, woven bamboo, was plain. In all it was a minimalistic, personality-free office . . . unless you knew that Eli was not half-fae as people assumed. He was the real thing, and nature grounded him as death grounded me.
The door shut with asnick.
And I turned, expecting to find him ready to yell at me. Instead, he had me shoved against his desk.
“Trousers,” he muttered.
My suit trousers were fastened with an iron button. I could pretend that my assistant had no idea, but the woman had literally locked him out of my pants. That was not an accident.
“Get rid of them.”
Eli watched as I tore the button off and dropped in it a pocket. Then he was pushing the cloth barriers away, cupping my bare ass in his hands.
“Mine,” he whispered.
“Yes.”
His kisses were enough to melt stronger reserve than mine, but Eli was fae. Rules mattered. And the closer we were to crossing the damning line, the more rules there were.
“Tell me.” Eli’s mouth was on my throat, scraping teeth over sensitive skin. His fingers traced the outline of where panties no longer were.
“Eli . . .”
“Genèvieve,” he said. “Rules?”
“No . . . that thing we . . . can’t . . . do,” I said between kisses. I couldn’t call it fucking, but I couldn’t call it sex. Sex was so much more than one act.
“Nowhat?”
I swear he tore down each barrier word by word, kiss by kiss, bargain by bargain. I shuddered as he slid his fingers over my aching body.
“What can’t we do?” he asked.
“Making love,” I breathed as I kissed his throat. “No making love.”
“Genèvieve.” He lifted me onto his desk like I weighed nothing. “It’sallmaking love when I touch you.”
“For me, too,” I confessed.
Something about that sentence tickled at my brain, and I swore I heard chimes sound around us, but then a faery—myfaery who had more experience than seemed fair—kissed me, and my brain stopped working. His hands were magic. They always were, sliding against my slick skin, teasing until I was begging, and then filling me as I needed.
I whimpered and moaned loud enough that I suspected the entire block might hear us.
I clutched at him, undoubtedly leaving bruises. And Eli watched me as he used his hands to bring me pleasure.
“I love you, Geneviève,” Eli said as I found the edge of the precipice. “I’ve loved you for years.”
“Eli . . .”
“Tell me,” he ordered.
“I love you. I fear I always will,” I confessed in a rasping voice interspersed with whimpers.
“Good.” He thrust his fingers deeper and faster. His thumb on my clitoris was hard and fast, and the combination tore a scream of pleasure from me.
I was trembling and, as any time emotions were intertwined with orgasms, I felt vulnerable. Eli swept me into his arms and carried me to the little sofa against the far wall.
