Chapter 30 Elizabeth
ELIZABETH
By the time we pull into my parents’ driveway, the rain has slowed to a steady drizzle. Porch lights glow against the clapboard, but the house itself is dark. The phone buzzes in my lap, and when I glance down, I let out a laugh.
“What’s up?”
“My parents are at the theater. Apparently, my mom’s best friend, Terry, finally got a lead part, and tonight is her debut. They couldn’t miss it.”
Brady’s mouth curves. “Community theater night. Sounds serious.”
“Very.” I grin.
Just as we exit the car, the rain grows heavier, and we race for the porch, puddles splashing up around our ankles. My fingers are slick, and I fumble with the door, laughing before finally getting it open.
“So much for not getting my stitches wet.” I gesture to my soaked shirt.
“That’s only for the first forty-eight hours.” Brady’s brow creases. “Are they bothering you?”
I shake my head. “No, I’m a quick healer. I barely even notice them anymore.”
The door clicks shut behind us, leaving the rain to pound on the porch roof outside. My shirt clings to my skin, the thin cotton plastered against me. The air-conditioned house feels cooler than I expect, and my nipples pebble instantly, the hard points visible through the damp fabric.
Brady’s gaze drops the second we step over the threshold, the light in his eyes so hot it feels like he’s physically touching me. My breath catches, and sparks light up in my chest and race down my spine.
For a heartbeat, neither of us moves. The muscle in his jaw flexes; the pulse in his neck is visible.
I shift, acutely aware of every damp inch of fabric dragging across my skin and how his sodden T-shirt is doing nothing but highlight the sculpted body beneath. My thighs press together, in reflex.
“I should… take a shower.” My voice is too husky, betraying the thrum of arousal already beating furiously through me.
His green eyes flare. “That’s a good idea,” he says, voice low and edged. His gaze drags over me one more time before he finally tears it away. “Before I forget we’re standing in your parents’ foyer.”
The air between us vibrates, dangerous and alive. Then he scrubs a hand over his face as if physically forcing his restraint back into place. “Go. I’ll call the team. Let them know what we found.”
I nod, but my legs feel shaky as I turn toward the stairs. His gaze burns between my shoulder blades the whole way up, and I know—absolutely know—that if we weren’t in this house, he would’ve already pinned me to the wall satisfying what we both want.
The hot water feels like heaven as it sluices the flecks of mud off my skin. Steam curling around me, I linger with the towel wrapped tight, staring at my reflection. My cheeks are flushed, eyes wide, hair sticking damply to my shoulders. No matter how hard I try, I can’t get my pulse to slow.
I pull on soft cotton shorts and a tank top, even though it’s hours before bed.
When I come back down the stairs, Brady is leaning against the hallway wall, phone pressed to his ear.
He glances at me as I pass, and though he doesn’t break stride in the conversation, the weight of his gaze trails me until I turn the corner into the kitchen.
I dig through the fridge, pulling out stacked containers with my mother’s neat handwriting. It doesn’t take long to heat them, and when Brady doesn’t appear, I head upstairs to find him.
I stop short in the hallway outside the bathroom.
The door is cracked open, and steam billows out into the cooler air.
Through the fogged glass of the shower, I catch the broad line of his shoulders, and the flex of his arms as he rakes his hands through thick, wet hair.
The sight unfurls a slow, deep ache low in the belly, the kind that makes my skin feel too tight.
I should turn away—I know I should—but my body stays rooted to the spot.
Brady steps out a moment later, towel slung dangerously low on his hips, water trailing in rivulets down the ridges of his abdomen. Another towel works through his hair, his bicep bulging with the motion. My mouth goes dry, and I can’t look away.
He doesn’t see me at first. But then his gaze lifts, landing on me like a physical blow.
I freeze.
So does he.
The charged silence hums, wrapping tight around my lungs until I can barely breathe.
My pulse beats frantically against my throat.
My nipples tighten beneath the thin cotton of my tank, and his eyes—dark, heated—catch there before dragging back up to mine.
His chest rises in a sharp, audible breath, like his restraint costs him too much.
I swallow hard, my body acting faster than my brain, thighs pressing together in a useless attempt to ease the need clawing at me. Every cell in me screams to close the distance, to feel his heat, his strength—but I stand there, shaking with want I can’t hide.
“I…” My voice falters. “I thought I’d… the food’s ready.”
The cords in his neck are taut, and the silence stretches until I can’t breathe. Then I’m moving. One step. Another. The towel he used on his hair hangs from my hand before I realize I’ve taken it from him.
Stopping in front of him, I press it to the center of his chest. My fingers drag it down over the hard planes of his torso, catching on the grooves of muscle, before sweeping back up across his collarbone, over his shoulders, down his arms to his wrists.
He doesn’t move, but I feel the change in him—the way his body tenses, the clench of his fists, the slight quiver of his stomach muscles.
Brady’s head tips back, an indistinct sound escaping him, raw and involuntary.
It sends a shiver racing through me, straight to the ache building between my legs.
When his gaze snaps back to mine, it’s molten. “Elizabeth.” My name is a warning and a plea, wrapped in one.
I don’t stop. I can’t. “Brady…”
The towel slips from my hand, forgotten and my palms find his damp skin. Before I can think of any possible consequences, my mouth is on his chest—the taste of fresh clean skin, heat, and him. His breath hisses, and his hand fists in my hair.
I sink down before him, knees pressing into the hardwood as I trail my fingernails over the ridges of his thighs, tracing the hard muscle. Stroking upward I reach the edge of the towel.
His hand fists in my hair again, tighter this time. “Elizabeth.” His voice is rough, strained.
I glance up through my lashes, pulse pounding. “I want this.”
His jaw clenches, torn between control and surrender, but he doesn’t stop me when I drop to my knees and tug the towel around his hips free.
My touch is tentative at first, then bolder, as my hand wraps around his thick length.
“Christ.” His head drops back against the doorframe, muscles taut, chest heaving.
I lean forward, my lips brushing the sensitive skin before taking him into my mouth and using my tongue to make him groan. The sound rumbles out of him, low and guttural, vibrating through me. Making me ache even more.
His fingers tighten in my hair, as if he can’t decide whether to pull me closer or push me away. “Elizabeth… You’re going to kill me.”
But I don’t stop. I can’t. The power of it—the way this untouchable, controlled man shudders because of me—feeds the fire inside my chest. Every sound he makes, every tremor in his body, is mine.
His breath grows harsher, his chest rising and falling with each shaky exhale as I take more of him deeper, my hand stroking where my mouth can’t.
The sounds he makes—half curse, half groan—shoot through me, igniting my core.
I press closer, wanting to give him everything, wanting to feel him come apart because of me.
“Firefly…” The nickname is hoarse, a broken breath. His thighs tense beneath my hands, and when I glance up, his green eyes are locked on me. The look is dark and borderline desperate. I shiver.
Brady yanks me up from under my arms, making me gasp.
His mouth claims mine, rough and consuming, swallowing the needy sounds I can’t hold back any longer.
My back hits the mattress, the sheets cool against my overheated skin.
Brady looms over me, braced on his hands, his body caging mine in.
His gaze sears into me, and for the first time tonight, I see the tether of his restraint unraveling.
“My turn,” he growls, and the promise in his voice makes me tremble with anticipation.
His mouth claims mine again, devouring me until he drags his lips lower.
Each kiss more heated than the last. He leaves a burning trail down my throat, across my collarbone, over the damp cotton of my tank top.
My pulse stutters as his hand slides beneath the fabric, lifting it higher, baring me inch by inch.
“Brady… Please.”
He doesn’t answer, just peels the tank over my head and tosses it aside.
His gaze scorches as it lingers on my bare breasts, nipples tight from the cool air and his attention.
He lowers his head and closes his mouth over one.
I whimper, my back arching into him. The scrape of his teeth followed by the wet heat of his tongue sends lightning through my veins.
By the time he works my shorts down my hips, I’m trembling. He kneels at the edge of the bed, dragging his mouth across the flat of my stomach, pausing at the waistband. His eyes lift, molten and wicked.
“Open your eyes, Firefly. I want to watch you blaze.”
I feel like I can’t breathe as his mouth replaces his hand, the first stroke of his tongue tearing a sound from me I didn’t know I could make.
My fingers knot in his hair, and when I try to squeeze my eyes shut, his low growl stops me. “Look at me.”
I do, and it destroys me. The sight of him there, the hunger and reverence in his gaze, the steady rhythm of his tongue—it’s too much. My body coils tight, every muscle straining until I break apart, shattering under his mouth, crying out his name as wave after wave of bliss crashes through me.