“Try it then.” I pour. “You don’t have to finish it if you don’t like it.”
Elias comes to the island. There’s the slightest smile on his face. He’s relaxed a little. Because I poured him a drink? Or because I admitted that I needed one?
“You really don’t want to go to this party,” he observes.
I snort. “What gave it away?”
Elias doesn’t say “the drink” or my tone or the words “fucking thing” like I’ve set him up to do. Instead he says, “When you previewed your schedule this morning, your jaw clenched and your eyes went hard. Then your face went blank.”
Well, fuck. I didn’t think there was anything to read on my face this morning.
Elias blinks. “Sorry. My mouth is stupid tonight. I don’t know why.”
I know why. There’s a huge toy pressing against his prostate. He can’t think clearly. Rather, hecanthink clearly, but he doesn’t have great control.
But his mouth isn’t stupid, and I hate when he says shit like that. I want to punish him for it. But all I can do is frown.
“No, it’s not.” I slide him a glass. “And you’re right. I don’t want to go. I hate shit like this.”
I pick up my glass while Elias fiddles with his. He asks, “So this person throwing the party isn’t a friend?”
“Business acquaintance. I barely know him and don’t give a shit about him.” I throw back the whiskey and pour another shot.
I can see thoughts in Elias’s eyes, but this time he doesn’t voice them. He tries the whiskey.
“What do you think?” I ask.
He frowns. “I’m not sure.”
“It’s an acquired taste.”
“I guess I’ll keep trying then.”
He’s so serious about it, so determined as he takes another sip. It makes me chuckle and that makes him smile and that makes me want to spend the evening here with him instead of at this fucking party.
But even without the party I couldn’t do that. I wouldn’t know how to spend an evening with him. With anyone. I’ve never invented a role like that.
My mood darkens.
“Do you have to go to parties like this often?” he asks.
“It’s always someone’s birthday or some fucking holiday.”
“So you hate all of them, not just this one in particular.” There’s something slightly teasing in his tone, but I can see the wheels turning.
“Stop trying to figure me out.”
He shrugs. “I can’t help it.”
God, he’s beautiful when he’s like this. Aroused. Unguarded.
Doesn’t he know how vulnerable it makes him? I’m the one who’s done it to him, but he’s the one who’s let me. Not just let me. He asked me to.
He needs me to bring him to this state.
“Come on.” I grab my glass and walk out of the kitchen.
Elias leaves his own glass on the island as he follows me down a hallway to the master bedroom. The room is huge and luxurious and pristine. The crisp covers on the bed don’t look touched, and there’s nothing lying around, no books or clothes, no devices charging. I wonder if it’s obvious to my very observant Elias that I never sleep here. I replaced the mattress, thinking I would, but I can’t sleep in Peter Grange’s room.
