His body turns rigid, and time seems to still, then he lets go of the door. “You asked for it.”
His hands clamp around my hips, and before I can even react, I’m hoisted over his shoulder. A startled sound tears from me as my world flips upside down. He's solid beneath me, all muscle and stubbornness, and I smack a fist against his back.
Jesus Christ, why is he built like a bloody wall?
“I swear to god, Elijah, I will bite you,” I snap, half-growl, half-threat.
“Go on then.”
He opens the back door one-handed— like I’m feather-light—and drops me onto the seat. The impact knocks the breath out of me, but before I can spit more words at him that the lord would definitely punish me for, he cages me in. One arm lifts, braced on the roof of the car, his body leaning in close enough that the space between us heats, and I can feel his breath coming in short bursts, like he's trying to hold all his anger inside.
His scent hits me first: Sandalwood. Clean soap that men use who think girly smells are beyond them. And the faintest bite of apple.
“Just remember, princess,” he murmurs, his voice rough enough to scrape along my skin. “I bite back.” His eyes drift to my mouth. “Harder.”
Heat rushes everywhere it shouldn't, my mouth goes dry as he withdraws and slams the door shut with a thud that reverberates straight through me.
I sit there, stunned, pulse kicking wildly, replaying that single sentence on a loop.
I bite back. Harder.
God help me.
I’m completely, utterly screwed—and this is only the first day of being near him since I was sixteen, when the only thing I cared about was dancing and school, not infuriating men withstorm-blue eyes and hands that make my entire body forget how to function.
Screw Elijah Reed Lawson.
Chapter 5
Elijah
It's been one hell of a week.
Since Rivers' game—where I had to all but haul Willow away before she did something reckless with that prick—she's shut me out completely. Not a word. Not a glance. She disappears into her room and stays there, as if she makes herself small enough, the world will forget she exists.
Don't know how that would even be possible.
The only time I see her is when she slips out to grab food for Sassy. Quiet. Guarded. Gone again before I can even think of what to say.
Rose swanned off on a spa break for two weeks with her group of equally insufferable friends, forgetting—again—that the world doesn't pause just because she wants cucumber water and a massage. Which also means I’m stuck waiting to hand her the divorce papers, and that delay alone is enough to put me in a foul mood.
I’m counting down the days until I’m no longer married to that soul-sucking excuse for a wife. The kind of woman who spreads her legs for every Tom, Dick and Harry—as long as they aren't her husband. Not that it matters to me anymore. I haven't wanted her in a long time. Longer than I care to admit.
Hookups also aren't my thing. Never were. I’m too old for empty bodies and meaningless fucks. Women in this place don't do it for me; I have never wanted another woman. No one has ever caught my attention like—.
I stop that thought before it finishes.
Because wanting is dangerous, and I've already made enough mistakes to last a lifetime. Not like she would ever be a mistake—but it still can't happen. Not now. Right now, the only thing that matters is her finding her feet again. Finding herself. And that starts today.
I finish up breakfast, flipping the last pancake onto the plate and drowning the stack in syrup. Excessive? Probably. Necessary? Absolutely. The girl has a sweet tooth the size of a small country.
“Morning,” River mutters, dragging himself into the kitchen with his football bag slung over one shoulder, eyes half-closed.
“You got in late last night,” I say, sliding the plate across the counter as he drops into the chair.
“I regret it already,” he groans.
I lean back against the counter. “Maybe stop taking your uncle's advice.” I love my brother, but he's a manwhore who runs a bar just so he can pick up women.
