33
ELSIE
My head stays tucked against Wells’chest as I ask, “Would you sleep with me tonight? In the Wisteria Suite?”
He traces the edge of my lower lip with his thumb, then tilts my chin. “Not in your room?”
“My grandmother kept that suite untouched for me,” I tell him. “I know she did. It used to be my favorite, back when I was little. I think she hoped I’d come back and want it again. And I do. I just haven’t had the nerve to go inside.” My voice catches. “I’m scared it won’t feel like mine anymore.”
“It will.”
“Would you come with me, anyway?”
He smiles, slow and sure. “I’ll go wherever you go, Elsie.”
“We don’t have to ... I mean, we can just sleep.”
His brow lifts, thumb stroking across my mouth. “You think that’s what I want?”
My pulse trips. “I—no?”
“I want to see you take what’s already yours, Els. I want to watch you walk into that room like it belongs to you. And then I want you to claim me, too.”
My knees almost buckle. “Is that right?”
One hand cups my jaw, the other the back of my neck, cradling me like something cherished. “You asked me to sleep with you like it’s a favor, but I’ve been waiting. I’ve been thinking. About you, about the sounds you make when you’re trying not to want me. Wondering what it’ll feel like when you finally stop fighting it.”
Something in me gives way, certain and unafraid.
“Then come with me.”
Upstairs, the Wisteria Suite waits for us at the end of the hall. The wallpaper is pale as old porcelain, patterned with faint vines and ghost blossoms. The bed is turned down, linens crisp, windows latched tight to shut out the chill.
I step inside first, heart hammering. Wells follows, shutting the door behind us.
I stop at the foot of the bed, palms open at my sides. His shadow spills over me as he comes closer, so close his warmth seeps through my sweater.
He skims his fingers up my arms from elbow to shoulder. His palms come to rest at the base of my neck, thumbs stroking the hollow space just there.
“This room’s yours,” he murmurs. “This whole fucking place is. And so am I.”
With a gentle brush, he moves a bundle of curls away from my neck. When he kisses the spot below my ear, my head tilts against his shoulder. His hands find the hem of my sweater, palms warm against my ribs.
“You’re shaking,” he says.
“I’m nervous.”
“We’ve done this before.” His hands flatten against my bare skin. “But not like this, not here.” He turns me to face him. His eyes are dark and fixed as he adds, “I’ve been fucking starving for you, Elsie.”
When I don’t move, he catches my wrist, brings my hand to his chest, presses it over his heart. It’s racing as hard as mine.
“It’s not just you,” he says. “You feel how wrecked I am for you? I told you, baby, you take me apart.”
“Good thing,” I say shakily. “I wouldn’t want to suffer alone.”
Without a word, he sinks to his knees in front of me and presses his face to my stomach. Not just to kiss, but to breathe me in, to rest there like he’s finally made it home after a long walk in the cold.
His hands cradle my waist, fingers flexing.
