“I’d love to bring you to events as my date, when you’re up for it, and I don’t mind going out by myself or with my friends, either. More of a quiet life would be good for me, actually. I know it’s good for my art when I have uninterrupted focus. Right now, it feels like I’m always trying to do twenty things at once.”
“I’ve never dated an artist,” I tell him. “It sounds enjoyable to watch you at work.”
I’ve seen enough of his illustrations now that I understand his passion even better. There’s humor and empathy and joy all wrapped up in the drawings, Elliot’s spirit in each piece.
We meet eyes across the dinner table.
“It’s good to be alone with you again, Hank.”
He’s terribly handsome as he smiles at me, desire flickering across the table between us, his beard scruffy.
Whatever else might be true, it feels right to have Elliot here. In my home, at my dinner table.
“I’ve missed you,” I tell him.
Elliot leans forward across the table, and my energy pulls me toward him. The dishes clatter as I put my hand on the table to catch my weight, and Elliot and I join in a kiss.
His beard rubs my bare skin, and my mouth opens as our tongues meet. I groan under my breath as we deepen the kiss, our first since we were rescued. It’s scorching and slow, and it only makes me want to kiss him longer, harder.
When we ease back, my heart is pounding. Elliot takes a big drink of his wine, catching his breath.
“I missed that, too,” Elliot says.
I sit back in my chair. “Every bit as hot, even without death hanging over us.”
Elliot laughs. “And unlike the last time we kissed, no Baronet Spencehill watching from down the beach.”
I laugh, too. “Hell. Don’t remind me.”
Elliot leans forward, eyeing me with our nearly empty plates between us. “Want to show me the bedroom?” he asks. “I’m wearing a fresh pair of socks for you.”
