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Strange how fast things have come full circle, landing me right back where I started.
Specifically in the back of my car, with Rick in the driver’s seat and Elle sprawled across me, her head in my lap. She’s so weak after her hellish migraine left her unable to stand.
She sleeps so quietly, so trustingly, her lips parted and her face at rest, not drawn into the lines of pain that shaped it so deeply before. When she’s serene, she looks gracefully older.
There’s a pensiveness haunting her that gives her this melancholy beauty, always longing and reaching for something just out of her grasp.
I wonder what she longs for so intently.
So deeply I can almost taste it on her lips.
That’s the difference between the day I met her and now.
On the day after she collapsed at SeaTac, I didn’t know how goddamned divine her lips would taste on mine.
Didn’t know how easy it would be to devour her, to almost give in to the urge to explore, even if it would have made the front page of every rancid gossip blog tomorrow. I can imagine the headlines, journalist clowns shouting that the Black Widow Billionaire had just assaulted his future bride when she was in distress, unable to care for her pain when all that mattered was his lust.
A dark smile twists my lips as I glance out the window, watching cars ease past our parked G80. Many of them hold the reporters I rudely dismissed.
If only I were such a thoughtless fuck.
My life would be easier if I gave in to every whim, every impulse I have without a single thought for how it would affect others.
How does she do it?
Living so spontaneously and still being so kind.
I can’t imagine being so hedonistic without being selfish too.
Yet Elle seems entirely selfless.
Especially the way she pushed herself today, knowing the cameras would set off her migraines if the reporters didn’t honor the conditions of my agreement.
I’m a rumbling volcano of a man.
Furious at their disrespect and the way they hurt her. I’m tempted to make some calls that will sever heads, but I hold back for her sake only.
If I pull strings to make sure a dozen assholes wind up terminated and destitute, Elle might be disappointed.
Hell, why do I care if this little firecracker disapproves of my justice?
If anything, I should be angry with her.
I never meant to kiss her that way.
It was meant to be the lightest brush. Controlled and over in an instant.
Not this slow, fusing sizzle that made it damn near impossible for me to pull away.
There was an innocence and sensuality in the way she leaned against me that caught me off guard. I’m used to women who kiss with intent; whose every goal is to make me lose my head and get so swept up in sex that I’ll drag them off to bed and let them weave their spell over me.
My ex-wife was like that in the end.
Only when she kissed me, she wasn’t trying to ply my body.
She was toying with my emotions, hoping my love for her would make me surrender to her demands, even when they turned batshit insane.
Yeah. I’m accustomed to dealing with women who want something and who have zero qualms about aiming their wiles straight at my cock.
