My fingers tighten in their grip, and my hand picks up the pace. With one palm laid flat on the tiles to hold myself upright, I tug mercilessly. How would it feel to be in this position withhishand around me?
Where my fingers are calloused and abused by years of yard work and self-sufficiency, Elijah’s are soft and gentle by nature. He does not like to make things harder for himself—he finds no pleasure in chopping his own firewood or picking up a shovel.
And I love that about him. It means I will be the one to do it for him, to take care of him.
Imagining those soft, controlling hands wrapped around me is enough to drive me wild. My hips snap forward to meet my own fist, and I groan at the scene I’m playing behind my own eyelids.
“Bite me. Make me bleed.”
Fuck, I sure did. I buried myself deep inside of him as I sank my teeth beneath his skin. The taste of his blood, the sound of his screams—you’d think I was a horrific romance novel vampire in my past life and not a lovesick fool.
“You tell me… watch how deeply your cock is fucking into me, see how you’ve made me bleed, and tell me if I look like I belong to you.”
I never got the chance to confirm it; too lost in the throes of my own pleasure, I never informed him of what I saw. But yes, Elijah, you did. You looked like you belonged to me.
But I don’t believe it was a necessary observation to make, not when he confirmed it himself moments later.
And if this man calls me ‘my flower’ one more time, I think I’ll tie him up and keep him locked inside my home for the rest of our long lives.
I’m unsure how Elijah finds that scent on me—how he takes a man who spends his free time covered in mud as he sits on tree branches and gets close enough to smell freshly cut flowers on him. It must be another side effect of our history together.
Maybe in our past life I was a florist. Or maybe he spent too long sitting at my grave, a bouquet slowly wilting between his palms. I’m unsure.
As horrible and twisted as it is, the thought of him mourning me in such a way is enough to send me off the deep end. I come with a shout, my release coating the faucet below me as I milk myself dry.
I’m sore and exhausted, and this orgasm is nothing compared to being buried balls deep inside of Elijah with my sights set on the indentation of my own teeth. But I enjoy myself either way, and I spend the next fifteen minutes thoroughly washing myself and his faucet with a half-present mind.
The other half is still lying on Elijah’s bed, feeling his hands run through my hair as I cry into his skin.
Fuck, everything he does, every word he speaks, brings forth that ache inside of me.
I am so terrified of losing him. I am so obsessed with his being alive that I’ll doanythingto keep him.
What would any sane person say if they heard these thoughts? What wouldElijahsay?
Freak. Creep. Stalker.
Enough. I will not let Bennett get to me, not when things are beginning to pan themselves out again. I will tell Elijah eventually, and then Bennett will hold nothing over me.
I towel-dry my hair—it’ll get wet again in the rain anyway—and dress myself in my sweats and hoodie. Then I piddle around the apartment, straightening up the throw blanket in the living room and washing the few cups in the sink.
It’s only when I move to the bedroom to take his comforter and sheets to the washer that I notice the note he’s left on his nightstand.
Rowan,
I’ve headed to work; I didn’t want to wake you up. You look so peaceful sleeping next to me. I’m not sure what your plans are for the day, but when I get off, should we go on a date? Text me,
Eli
I grin, pocketing the small note before grabbing my phone to check the time. It’s almost 11:30 now, and I’m sure Elijah hasn’t had lunch. I planned on coming by anyway, and seeing him in person is better than a text, right?
I grab soup from the sandwich shop on McLain that he went to before, even though it’s a little out of the way, and take it to the newspaper office. Rainy days call for a hot meal.
It’s a little past noon when I arrive, parking my truck along the street. Pedestrians are walking into various stores, and some are crowding benches under awnings to hide from the rain. I can feel their stares as I exit my vehicle; the perpetual judgment and negative interest that comes with being a social outcast.
I’ll never understand these people. I’ve never once thought I was better than them—I just have no interest in knowing them. There is a difference they’re too shallow to see or understand.
So, I ignore their existence altogether and enter theFort Myers Post.
