Chapter Twenty-Two
Rowan
Elijah’s apartment is void of noise—aside from the patter of raindrops against the windows—and the thick clouds overhead cast a dreary shadow over the bedroom.
I’m alone.
The right side of the bed has grown cold, so he must have gotten up rather early, which makes sense. It’s Monday, and Elijah has work today.
Fully naked, I stretch myself out over the mattress. The pillows smell of his shampoo, the sheets smell of his skin. Elijah’s essence surrounds me completely, and I find myself lost in it for a short while.
Some part of me really thought I’d lost. That, for all of my suffering and plotting, I had lost him anyway. But then I received that text last night, and I fled my house so fast I didn’t even bother responding to the message.
He looked so beautiful when I arrived.
Face flushed, joggers hung low on his hips as he stood in the doorway. Elijah seemed relieved, as if he thought I wouldn’t show. As if there was ever a reality where I am not at his beck and call.
And he heard me out. He stood quietly as I explained myself again—this time in greater detail. Of course, this time I also knew what he wanted to hear. It was all meticulously thought out to soothe and placate him without incriminating myself.
Yet I was still surprised at how easily he forgave me. At how easily he accepted my words and moved past his fear and anger.
I wonder what happened to him in California. Elijah came back with his walls lowered, more willing to make himself vulnerable to me. Maybe I have a family member to thank for that.
When I fell to my knees in front of him, everything around me clicked into place. Once again, I was reminded that my entire reason for breathing is to be in his space; I was made to worship at his feet.
And Elijah accepted my offering so gracefully. He took my body, took every thrust and every bruise with a relieved sigh and trembling hands.
As if he’s been waiting—as if his entire reason for breathing is simply to be touched by me.
“I belong to you, my flower. I belong to you.”
If only he knew the reality of that statement. If only he knew how true those words ring. That they caress a place so deep inside of me that holds the memories of us from so long ago.
Now more than ever, I want to tell him what he is to me. What I am meant to be to him.
As the rain continues to coat the windowpanes, I drag myself from the comfort of Elijah’s bed and find yesterday’s clothes in piles around the bedroom floor.
Even if I felt like snooping through his belongings, nothing Eli owns would fit me anyway.
My little angel is just that: little. Maybe not to others, but definitely to me, he is. Cute and small and docile when he needs to be; a moody, snapping chihuahua otherwise.
Before I dress, I take liberties in his shower. It’s a small space with a single sink and a small mirror, a toilet in the corner, and a shower just big enough that we could both squeeze in uncomfortably if we wanted to. The bathtub most definitely wasn’t made for leisurely soaking.
I turn the knobs until there is steam licking the tiles, and then I step under the falling water.
My mother used to tell me that showering in a thunderstorm is dangerous, as if the lightning can sneak inside and zap me without mercy.
I believe there is truth to her words, that the lightning could very well travel through the pipes, but there is no way I’ll be greeting Elijah smelling of sex.
Though some part of me wonders if he’ll find it hot if I were to enter his workspace smelling of debauchery and sin. Of him.
Would he remember last night in great detail? The smell of our sweat and his blood—the combination of lust and longing that suffocated both of us until we were delirious with need and affection?
Just the thought of him in general reminds me, so I imagine the smell of our actions would do it for him, at the very least.
As I squirt some of his shampoo that smells of coconut and summertime onto my hand, I can feel myself stirring. It smells of his pillows, of how lucky I felt shoving my nose into his hair as I held him in his living room last night.
I’m hard again. As if I didn’t spend a ridiculous amount of time buried deep inside of him and then holding him tightly as we relished in the aftermath of our intimacy. It’s kind of ridiculous how easily he controls me—a true puppet master even as he’s miles away.
Will he find himself disappointed when I appear smelling of coconut? When he leans in, and that flowery scent he loves to find on my skin is gone and replaced by himself? Or will he grow hard in his slacks and want me even more?
The potential fallout does not outweigh my own desire, and I wrap my fingers around my aching length. Heat that has nothing to do with the steam coils through me, and visions of Elijah laid beneath me crowd my brain.
In my mind’s eye, I watch him sob around my fingers as he tells me he’s about to come; I taste the musky citrus of his inevitable release on my tongue. He’s towering over me as his thighs tremble and his voice shakes, my finger buried in his ass.
That expression of shock and pure ecstasy that overcomes him whenever he feels my touch is so fucking intoxicating that my own arousal beads generously along my slit in seconds.
I want to see it again. I want to taste it and mold his pleasure with my own hands.
I crave his commanding voice and my own devotion. I am always so desperate for Elijah in whatever way I can have him that it’s starting to become a problem.
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 with his hand 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 do anything to keep him.
What would any sane person say if they heard these thoughts? What would Elijah say?
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.