Chapter Eighteen Elliot
Three days pass before I'm ready.
Three days of sleeping twelve hours at a stretch, of eating meals Landon prepares with quiet determination, of sitting by the fire and letting my body remember what safety feels like. Three days of Jace beside me, around me, never more than arm's reach away.
Three days of wanting.
It starts small. A brush of fingers against my hip. The weight of his arm across my waist when we sleep. The way he looks at me when he thinks I'm not paying attention.
By the third night, the wanting has become overwhelming.
We're alone in the cottage. Briar and Landon left that morning to buy a second property under a shell company, establishing separate locations in case one is compromised. Jinx went back to the Ministry, leaving Jace and me with nothing but surveillance feeds and each other.
The fire has burned low. Orange light flickers across the walls, painting shadows that shift and dance. Jace sits on the edge of the bed, pulling off his boots, his back to me.
I watch the muscles move beneath his shirt. The controlled efficiency of his movements. The way his shoulders tense when he hears me shift on the mattress behind him.
"Jace."
He turns. Grey eyes finding mine in the dim light.
"Yes?"
I don't answer with words. Instead, I reach for him, fingers curling in the fabric of his shirt, pulling him toward me.
He comes willingly but carefully, settling onto the bed beside me, one hand braced on the mattress.
"Elliot. Are you sure?"
"I'm sure." I pull harder, bringing his face close to mine. "I need this. I need you. I need to feel something that isn't fear."
"Your ribs—"
"Are healing." I close the distance between us, press my mouth to his. "I'll tell you if it's too much. But right now, I need you to stop thinking and just touch me."
Something shifts in his expression. The careful control gives way to something hungrier, something that's been waiting beneath the surface.
"Okay," he says. "Tell me what you want."
"I want to be on top. I want to control it. I want—" I swallow, force myself to say it. "I want to ride you until neither of us can think."
His pupils dilate. I watch the black swallow the grey, leaving only a thin ring of color around the edges.
"Then take what you need."
I push him onto his back.
He lets me, going down easily, spreading himself across the mattress like an offering. His hands come up to my hips, steadying me as I straddle his thighs.
I've never been in this position before. Not with Moore, who only ever wanted me passive and compliant. Not with anyone. The power of it rushes through me like electricity, lighting up nerves I forgot I had.
I start with his shirt.
My fingers find the buttons, work them open one by one. Each inch of exposed skin makes my mouth water. His chest is a fucking minefield of muscle and scar tissue, the evidence of a lifetime of violence written across his body.
I lean down and trace one scar with my tongue.
His breath catches. His hands tighten on my hips.
"Elliot."
"Shh." I move to another scar, this one curving along his ribs. "Let me."
I take my time. Mapping him with my mouth the way he once mapped me with his hands. Learning the texture of his skin, the salt taste of him, the places that make him twitch and the places that make him groan.
His nipples are sensitive. I discover this when I drag my tongue across the left one and feel his whole body jerk beneath me.
I do it again. Slower this time. Circling the peaked flesh before taking it between my teeth and biting down gently.
"Fuck." The word comes out strangled. His hips buck up, pressing his hardness against my ass. "Elliot, if you keep doing that—"
"What?" I look up at him, feeling bold in a way I've never felt before. "What will you do?"
His eyes are stormy now. His chest heaves with rapid breaths.
"I'll flip you over and fuck you so hard you forget your own name."
Heat surges through me at the words. But I shake my head.
"Not yet. Tonight, I'm in charge."
I return my attention to his chest. His right nipple gets the same treatment as the left, my tongue swirling, my teeth grazing. He writhes beneath me, hands flexing on my hips, clearly fighting the urge to take control.
But he doesn't. He lets me explore, lets me set the pace, gives me exactly what I asked for.
I work my way lower. Kissing down the center of his stomach, feeling the muscles clench and release under my lips. The trail of dark hair below his navel leads me where I want to go.
I palm him through his pants. Feel the thick length of him straining against the fabric.
"Off," I say. "Take these off."
He obeys instantly, lifting his hips so I can drag the pants down his legs. His cock springs free, flushed dark and already leaking at the tip.
I wrap my hand around him.
He groans, low and deep. His head falls back against the pillows.
"Your hands," he manages. "I thought about your hands. When you were gone. Couldn't stop thinking about them."
"What did you think about?"
"This." He thrusts into my grip, fucking my fist with shallow strokes. "Exactly this. Your fingers wrapped around me."
I stroke him slowly, relearning his shape. He's thick, heavy in my palm, the skin silky over iron hardness. A bead of precum wells at the slit, and I swipe my thumb through it, spreading the slickness down his shaft.
"More," he says. "Please."
I've never heard him say please before. The word does something to me, lights a fire in my belly that demands I give him everything he wants.
I lower my head and take him into my mouth.
The taste of him explodes across my tongue.
Salt and musk and something darker, something essentially him. I moan around his cock, the vibration making him jerk and curse.
"Fuck. Fuck, Elliot, your mouth—"
I take him deeper. Relax my throat the way I learned to do, push past the initial resistance until my nose brushes the coarse hair at his base. I hold there for a moment, letting him feel the tight heat of my throat, then pull back slowly, dragging my lips up his length.
His hands tangle in my hair. Not pushing, not controlling. Just holding on.
I set a rhythm. Down and up, tongue working the underside of his shaft, hollowing my cheeks on each upstroke. I cup his balls with one hand, rolling them gently, feeling them draw up tight against his body.
"Elliot." His voice is wrecked. "If you don't stop, I'm going to come."
I pull off with a wet pop. Look up at him through my lashes.
"Not yet," I say. "I want you inside me when you come."
He makes a sound that's almost a growl. In one swift motion, he sits up, pulls my shirt over my head, and hauls me into his lap.
"Then stop teasing," he says against my mouth, "and ride me."
The lube is in the nightstand drawer.
Jace retrieves it while I strip off my remaining clothes, tossing them aside without care. When I turn back to him, his eyes rake over my body with an intensity that makes me feel powerful instead of exposed.
"You're beautiful," he says.
"You don't have to—"
"I'm not being polite." He pulls me back onto his lap, positions me so I'm straddling his thighs. "I'm stating a fact. You're beautiful. Every part of you."
He slicks his fingers with lube and reaches between my legs.
The first touch makes me gasp. Cold and slick, circling my entrance with deliberate pressure. He doesn't push in right away, just rubs and teases, letting my body adjust to the sensation.
"Relax," he murmurs. "I've got you."
I breathe out. Force my muscles to unclench.
The first finger slides in.
It's been a while since we've done this. My body resists at first, tightening around the intrusion. But Jace is patient, working his finger in slow circles, stretching me gradually.
"More," I say when I'm ready.
A second finger joins the first. The stretch burns, but it's a good burn, a burn that promises pleasure to come. He scissors his fingers, opening me up, preparing me for something bigger.
"You're so tight." His voice is strained. "So hot inside. I can feel you clenching around me."
I rock back onto his hand, fucking myself on his fingers. The angle shifts, and suddenly he's pressing against that spot inside me, the one that makes sparks explode behind my eyes.
"There." I grab his shoulders, nails digging in. "Right there, don't stop—"
He adds a third finger and keeps hitting that spot, over and over, until I'm shaking and leaking and seconds from coming.
"Enough." I bat his hand away, breathing hard. "I want your cock. Now."
He doesn't argue. He slicks himself up, positions the head at my entrance, and waits.
I sink down.
The stretch is incredible.
He's bigger than his fingers, filling me in a way that borders on too much. I take him inch by inch, pausing whenever the burn intensifies, letting my body adjust before taking more.
His hands grip my hips hard enough to bruise. His jaw is clenched, muscles standing out in his neck. He's holding himself perfectly still, letting me control the pace.
"You feel—" His voice breaks. "Elliot, you feel—"
"I know." I bottom out, taking all of him, feeling impossibly full. "I feel it too."
For a moment, neither of us moves. We just breathe together, adjusting to the connection, the intimacy of being joined so completely.
Then I start to move.
I lift myself slowly, feeling every inch of him drag against my inner walls. The friction is exquisite, a slow-building pleasure that radiates outward from where we're connected. I drop back down, taking him deep again, and we both moan.
I find a rhythm. Rising and falling, rotating my hips on each downstroke, chasing the angle that makes everything light up inside me. Jace's hands guide me, not controlling, just helping me move more efficiently.
"You're so good at this," he says. "Taking me so well. Like you were made for me."
"Maybe I was." I lean down, capture his mouth in a sloppy kiss. "Maybe this is what I was always supposed to be. Not property. Not an asset. Just yours."