"Theskillet.Sideof blueberry pancakes.Blackcoffee.Keepit coming."
"Yougot it."Shescribbles on her pad and bustles away.
Iturn to look at him. "Family?"
Eliasmeets my gaze. "Youhave the master access to myVaultin your pocket.Youknow where the bodies are buried—literally and financially.YouthinkIlet just anyone into the inner circle?"
"Ithink you let me in becauseIfixed your pivot tables."
Hesnorts.Hereaches out and tucks a loose strand of hair behind my ear.Hisfingers are rough, calloused from counting cash and loading magazines, but his touch is shockingly gentle.
"Ilet you in," he says quietly, "because since the moment youstood shivering on the highwayand started yelling about taxcodes, the noise in my head stopped.You’rethe only thing that adds up,Mia."
Mychest tightens. "That’ssurprisingly sweet for a man whosnapped a federal agent's wrist on the highway practically the moment we met."
"Iwould havesnapped his neck if he'd actually touched you."
Thedoor chimes.Iglance up instinctively.
Twomen walk in.Idon't recognize them.They’rewearing expensive hiking gear—too clean and too new.Theyscan the room, their eyes lingering a little too long on our booth.
Eliasgoes still next to me, vibrating with the lethal tension of a predator locating a threat.Hisarm drops from the back of the booth to wrap around my shoulders, pulling me tighter into his side.
"Tourists?"Iask softly.
"No,"Eliasmurmurs. "Scouts.Costa’spayroll."
Myheart stutters. "Shouldwe leave?"
"No."Hepicks up his coffee, takes a sip, and sets it down with a sharp clack. "We’redone hiding.Ifthey want to look, let them look.Butthey need to know what they’re looking at."
"Andwhat are they looking at?"
Heturns to me.Theintensity in his gray eyes pins me to the seat. "MyOldLady."
BeforeIcan process the label, he moves.
Ignoringthe eyes of every patron,Elias'shands clamp onto my waist.Hedoesn't pull me sideways.Hedrags me right across the vinyl seat untilI’mforced to part my knees and straddle his thick thigh.
"Elias!"Igasp, my hands flying to his broad shoulders to steady myself.
"Quiet," he growls.
Helocks me in,a living fortressholding me against his chest with my back to the table.Becausehis flannel shirt is obscenely large on me, the hem drops like a heavy woolen curtainover my skirt, entirely obscuring the juncture of our bodies from the rest of the diner.Theycan only see me sitting on his lap.
Theycan't see the reality of what he's doing.
I’mnot wearing any underwear.Eliasdestroyed my lace in theVault.Andright now, underneath the shroud of the oversized flannel, the heavy, rough seam of his denim jeans presses mercilessly against my bare, wildly sensitive core.
Mybreath hitches.Mythighs clench on instinct.
Hereaches under the hem of the flannel.Hedoesn't need todo more than shift his weight, the thick muscle of his thigh flexing upward just an inch.Thefriction of the rough denim dragging against my slick, swollen clit sends a jolt of sheer, blinding heat straight up my spine.
"Elias,"Iwhimper, burying my face into the crook of his neck to muffle the sound.
"Mine," he whispers into my hair.It’sa declaration of war against anyone who thinks otherwise, and a lethal promise to my trembling body. "Letthem look at what belongs to me."
Heflexes his thigh again, a slow, agonizing grind that forces a choked sound from my throat.Ibite down hard on the collar of his cut, my hands knotting uselessly in the leather as my body threatens to melt right here in the booth.
