Chapter 10
IRIS
Amere two days later, I'm sitting in Elias's lap, sewing a rip in one of his shirts while he reads a book.
I know now that he prefers paperbacks to e-readers, though he has two of those lying around. Historical fiction to thrillers. Milky, sugary tea to coffee.
And taking me—nestled against him or straddling him or under him—with my eyes locked onto his. Though he accommodated my need for wanting to know how it feels to have him take me from the back while I was on all fours, with a growl.
It had been rough and fast and God, just thinking of how he'd snuck under me first and suckled on my hanging breasts, then slid lower and ate me out, then took me from behind makes heat rush through every pore.
Everything I ask of him, he gives me a hundred times more.
I bite my lower lip to stop my grin from spreading and look around the cabin.
It smells different in here now. Still pine and woodsmoke, still him, but underneath it something warmer and softer has crept in—jasmine, the ghost of the lavender soap I found under the sink, the two of us mingled into something new.
Something all ours.
The afternoon light slants through the window above the kitchen shelf in a way I already recognize, the way it turns the pine walls amber at this exact hour.
My cardigan—one of his flannels he gave me and that I've been wearing open over his t-shirts—is draped over the arm of the leather couch. The dish sponge lives on the left side of the sink now instead of the right, a small mutiny he hasn't commented on or reversed.
We went outside this morning, just for an hour, walking the tree line where the last of the May snow still clung to the shadowed roots of the lodgepole pines.
The air had been cold and bright and so clean it almost hurt, and he'd walked behind me with his hands in his pockets, pointing out the hawk circling above the eastern ridge, the tracks of something small and fast cutting through the mud.
I'd found three perfect pinecones and put them in my pocket like treasure. He'd watched me do it without a word, that almost-smile ghosting the corner of his mouth. Neither of us mentions the outside world. Neither of us mentions time. As if naming either might make the sand run faster.
It's impossible to think we aren't destined. It isn't just that we both love silence together, or that he loves spicy food—he scarfed down the beef noodles I made yesterday and then had seconds.
It isn't just that we both feel lost in our own families.
At dawn, after he had exhausted us both again, I probed and he told me about his three sisters and his mother, who all live in LA.
That they loved him but wanted him to be different.
Wanted him to be who he was before he went into the military.
Wanted him to be more than he was capable of now.
I felt his sense of isolation acutely because I have lived a version of it myself.
It's not just this place, I think, drawing my needle through the worn cotton of his shirt. It’s not just this insatiable desire, this sense of freedom running through my veins.
It's him. He's the one who's made this feel like home. He's the one who's made me feel like I've been nothing but a ghost before—drifting through rooms, through years, taking up space without ever quite landing anywhere. Which reminds me of the ghost romance I stole from my stepsister once.
Putting the shirt aside, I pick up the small field notebook and pencil I filched from his shelf last night and uncap it.
The pages smell like old paper and graphite.
I've been filling in the empty alphabet since yesterday, and I bend over it now, tongue between my teeth, finishing the last few letters.
"You've been playing with that since last night.
" Elias speaks the words into my upper back, his breath warm through the thin cotton.
One large hand rests open on my belly—warm, heavy, proprietary in a way that makes something purr low in my chest—while the other strokes slow lines up and down my side.
He's always touching me. Sometimes his fingers bracket my neck and he’ll swoop in for a possessive, breathtaking kiss. Sometimes he’ll run his fingers through my hair as if I’m the anchor that keeps him here. I wonder if he realizes how much he touches me.
“Want to show me?"
"Promise you won't make fun of me or be scandalized."
"I won't." He presses the words into the nape of my neck, his lips warm against my skin, and I writhe on his lap restlessly, the friction of him beneath me already doing things to my body that my still-tender flesh really can't afford right now.
"None of that, Princess." He tightens his arm around my middle, a firm, immovable band of heat.
"But I need you," I say, shifting and pressing my face into the notch of his throat. He smells of woodsmoke and warm skin and that particular scent that is just him, just Elias, that I have already filed away somewhere I'll never lose.
"What you need is a break." The words rumble up through his chest against my cheek. "Jesus, Iris. You flinched when I took you this morning. I—please. I can't bear to hurt you."
The complaint lingers on the tip of my tongue—moments are running away like a freight train—but I don't release it. I can't ruin this time I have with fears about the future. I nod instead and lick at the hollow of his neck, taste the salt of his skin, feel the slight catch of his breath when I do.
His hands sneak under my shirt. Both of them, large and certain, cupping my breasts, thumbs finding my nipples and rubbing lazy circles until they stiffen and push back against him.
"That's just mean if you aren't going to take me," I say, pouting, but thrusting my eager flesh deeper into his hands anyway, chasing the pressure.
"I'm going to get hungry in a little while, baby girl." His voice drops low, that rough gravel register that does catastrophic things to my nervous system. "And I'm going to want to eat you out."
My pussy weeps at the promise, the muscles clenching and unclenching on nothing.
Outside the pines dance in the afternoon breeze and the wood stove ticks quietly in the corner.
In here it's just his hands on me and his breath at my ear and the slow, unbearable simmer of wanting him that never fully goes away.
It's like there's a chip under my skin that recognizes his voice. His touch. Even the exact rhythm of his breath.
"Now let me see it," he says, and takes the notebook from my hand. Opens it and begins to read aloud.
"A for Anal." A pause. "Crossed out."
"B for Blow Job." Another pause, longer. "With a dot instead of a check."
"C for Cock-Warming."
"D for Dirty Talk."
"E for Erotic Massage." His voice drops on that one, turning deep and husky, and I feel it vibrate through his chest and straight down my spine.
He flips the pages slowly, then tilts my chin up with one finger until I'm looking at him. Those green eyes are warm and dancing. "Want to tell me what this delightful list is?"
"All the things I want to try," I say, lifting my chin a little. “With you.”
"And anal is crossed off because?"
I wrinkle my nose. "My stepsisters always made it sound awful." I study him for a second. "If you really want it, I guess I could—"
"No, sweetheart." Quiet and absolute. "I don't want anything you don't want."
Something warm blooms in my chest. He looks back down at the list.
"Why is blow job only a dot and not a full check then?"
"Because you didn't finish inside my mouth."
"I sprayed your tits," he says, completely unapologetic. "Which are my favorite things in the world.”
"Yes, well." I fold my hands primly in my lap. "I'm a bit of an overachiever. So it's not complete yet."
He laughs. The sound jostles me, low and real and rare, and seeps into every lonely crevice inside me, as if telling me that I won't be alone even after I leave him. The thought lands like a stone and I push it away.
"What is cock-warming exactly?"
I clear my throat. "I think you get inside me but like—don't do anything more. Just stay there. For however long you want.”
"Ahh." His mouth twitches. A new fire blazes in his eyes as he looks at me, slow and heated. "So you keep my cock warm and ready to go when I want.”
I try not to shy away from the intensity of his gaze. "Want to try it tonight?"
"As soon as you heal," he says.
"Elias, we don't have enough—"
He presses two fingers gently against my lips, stopping the words I can't quite say out loud. His eyes search mine for a long moment, then he leans and touches his forehead to mine.
My heart thumps painfully in my chest.
Keep me, please, I want to say. Keep me with you forever.
"How is this my life, Princess?" His voice is low, rough at the edges, like the words cost him everything. "How have you fallen into my lap like this?"
I shuffle a bit more in his lap so that I can face him. “I know you don’t want to talk about the future but I want to. Need to.”
His throat ripples on a swallow before he nods. “There have been no messages from Aiden on the satellite phone. I checked this morning.”
I nod, my stomach falling. Already, I can sense him retreating, putting himself behind a wall. Does he think I’ll cling to him when it’s time to go? That I’ll ask for more than he’s willing to give?
“Not about that,” I say. Maybe I need distance to say this. I try to scoot out of his lap.
His arm tightens. “You aren’t going anywhere, sweetheart.”
I sigh and look down at my lap. “I wanted to say thank you.”
“For taking your virginity?”
I look up and glare at him, my cheeks hot. “Can you put away your grumpiness for one moment, Elias Sharif?”
The corners of his mouth twitch. “You know, only my CO ever raised his voice at me.”
I roll my eyes. “When I go back, I’m going to fight for the future I want. I’m going to fight about getting a day job, about having babies when I’m ready for them and maybe even—”
“Babies?” he says, shooting to his feet.
For once, his attention is somewhere else and I slide down his body as if he were a slide. I’m unsteady on my feet and he instantly throws out a hand to steady me. “What did I say wrong?” I say, licking my lips.
He runs a hand through his hair and lets a curse rip. “Jesus, Iris. I didn’t use any protection.” Then his eyes go distant and I know he’s doing mental math. “All those times.”
“It’s okay. I didn’t think of it until this morning, either.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?” Unlike all the mafia macho assholes I grew up around, his voice goes low when he’s angry. But it’s all the more dangerous for it.
Not that the danger is to me. I can read him now, so clearly. He’s upset with himself.
I fold my arms against my belly, looking defensive. “Because it was too late by then anyway. I wasn’t going to stop you when you were deep inside me and about to explode. I like that sound you make when you come.”
Twin strips of color streak his high cheeks. “Is it possible?”
“What?”
He closes his eyes as if searching for patience, then searches mine. “Is it a fertile time for you?”
“Yes. Very possible,” I say, pushing the words out. “Vitale wanted to breed me that very night.”
Another curse rips out of him. “Why are you not panicking about this?”
“That’s what I wanted to mention to you—”
“You better damn well tell me if you fall pregnant, Princess.”
“Why? Why would you want to know?” I say, taking a step back.
He eats it up in the blink of an eye, pressing me against one of the posts. “Because if you end up pregnant, Iris, I’m going to want to keep the baby. And you.”
I flinch, but have nowhere to escape to, no way to hide my hurt because he’s caging me with his body.
He wants me, will even keep me, only if I get pregnant.
It’s a cruel slap from the universe, giving me everything I want, but in the worst way possible. Giving me the man I love but on a condition.