“Elliot, I’m not hungry.”
“Really?”
“Yes,” I say, trying to convince both him and myself. “Really.”
He tilts his chin up, glaring at me down the bridge of his wide nose, the two hoops in his left nostril flaring as he continues to scent me.
“Show me,” he says.
“Show you what?”
His brows lift, and his gaze slides down to my knees before moving back up to my face.
“I want to see her. If she isn’t already weeping for me, I’ll take you home.”
He shrugs a shoulder as if it’s so simple, and I sit there, unwilling to act.
I can already taste his lust in the air, that spicy flavor, mixing with his usual fragrance, like cinnamon peppermints. He’s practically drooling as he stares at me, and the sight has me fisting the armrests.
“You’re ridiculous,” I say, legs now crossed.
“No, what’s ridiculous is you starving yourself because you’re mad at me.”
“I’m not mad at you,” I correct.
I’m just…tired. I guess.
“Good. Then prove me wrong.”
He leans back in his chair and crosses his arms as he waits for me to comply. But I hesitate, biting my lip.
I know what lies between my legs. I could feel it the moment I walked into his room back at Crescent House—fuck his slick grin and deep voice—it’s been spreading ever since.
If I leave now, I might be able to swallow it back down and ignore it for the next couple of days, but the longer I sit here, the less likely that seems. And Elliot knows how to play this game.
He spreads his legs, revealing the thick imprint of his dick, already stiff in his jeans, and my mouth begins to water.
Damn him.
With a sigh, I part my knees, and Elliot’s breath catches at the sight of my pink panties and the wet spot forming in the center.
He nods, grunting as he adjusts himself, and I watch the bulge in his pants grow thicker. He palms it, shifting the swell to the left side.
Maybe I’m not the only one who’s hungry.
“Take them off,” he demands, breath shallow.
“You first.”
His tongue slides over his lips, and he traps the little silver ball in the center between his teeth. But his anticipation only lasts a moment.
He holds my gaze as he works the button on his jeans, and I get distracted as he frees himself, fisting his dick just above the waistband of his boxers.
Elliot is the only man I know with a dick prettier than his face. Which is saying something, given he could probably turn Medusa to stone.
It’s long and thick, and dark as he is. And I can’t help but gawk at it as it sits in his hand, proud and full, head swollen with unmet need, the piercing in the top glinting in the light.
“Your turn,” he says, rubbing the skin beneath his head with his thumb.
