Chapter 21
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
ELLIOT
I have only ever kissed three men in my life. And if I’m being honest, two of them barely count. They were high school boys, awkward and overeager, all clumsy lips and too much tongue. Which really just leaves Shawn.
Shawn kissed me a lot, especially in the beginning.
I liked it then. I had craved it. Until he started chain-smoking like it was an Olympic sport.
Until his kisses tasted like ash and resentment.
Until his mouth became the source of insults instead of affection.
By then, I could not stand the thought of it on me.
So yes, my experience is limited, but I thought I knew what kissing was.
I was wrong.
Arthur kisses like no one else. Like nothing else.
His mouth is firm and commanding, demanding more while giving more at the same time.
He does not just press his lips to mine, he devours, he caters, he claims. The sound that slips out of me is closer to a whimper than a moan when he tilts his head and deepens the kiss, his teeth grazing my bottom lip before tugging gently.
I gasp, and my fingers dive into his hair, twisting, clutching, desperate for more.
One of his hands cups the side of my throat, steady and protective, while the other drags me impossibly closer, sealing me against him until I can feel every taut, powerful line of his body.
Then I feel it. Solid, heavy, throbbing heat pressed between my thighs, right where I am aching most. The sensation rips another gasp from me, this one sharper, needier.
My hips jerk instinctively, grinding against him before I think better of it.
I am wet, aching, trembling with the force of wanting.
And still, he has the audacity to pull back.
I clutch his hair, trying to drag him down again, but his hand slides firmly to my hip, stilling my frantic movements. I groan in frustration, nearly feral, which only earns me that flicker of amusement in his eyes.
“Tell me, Elliot.” His voice is gravel dipped in velvet, deep and rough enough to vibrate through my bones. “Are you still operating under the false assumption that I don’t want to kiss you?”
“Well…” My voice is wrecked, breathless, like I’ve just run sprints. My pulse is a bass drum in my ears. “You did stop. So if you really want to convince me…”
The corner of his mouth lifts into a smile.
Then his lips crash back onto mine, cutting off whatever else I was about to say.
This time, the kiss is harder, hungrier, and I feel dizzy, drunk, utterly undone.
He tastes of mint, sharp and clean, while his scent, cedar and spice and pure masculine heat, wraps around me until I cannot tell where I end and he begins.
My thighs spread wider of their own accord, begging without words for him to give me more, to press harder, to brand me with his weight and strength.
He complies, grinding his hips against me with a force that makes my breath stutter.
I want bruises. I want reminders. I want to carry him with me even when he’s not here.
The sharp thud of my head hitting the cupboard behind me barely registers through the haze.
Arthur jerks back instantly, his hand flying to cradle the back of my skull, his eyes searching mine, voice tight with concern. “Are you alright?”
“I didn’t even feel it.” My lips are already finding his ear, my voice low, needy, shameless. “I felt something lower, though.”
He drops his head lower, trailing his nose against the column of my neck, he inhales deeply. “Christ. How do you always smell like that?”
“Like what?” I try not to giggle even though it tickles as he nestles in closer.
“Like vanilla and sugar and—” He sniffs me again. “I don’t know. Fucking happiness.”
I am floating. Heaven presses against me in the form of his chest and arms. For a dizzy second I’m sure I have reached Nirvana. Bells ring somewhere inside my skull and everything is bright and good in the best possible way.
Wait. I really can hear bells.
“My alarm,” I groan as I pull away, my head thudding hard against the cupboard.
“Stop hitting your head,” Arthur says, reluctantly loosening his hold.
I slide off the counter on rubber-legs. He keeps both massive arms braced on either side of me so I have to duck under one to reach for my phone. It’s exactly where I left it, on the treatment table, a tiny rectangular cock block. I silence the alarm with a tap and turn back to him.
He looks unchanged from the moment he walked in: perfectly put together, everything exactly where it should be. The suit is immaculate, the shirt crisp. The one exception is the way his trousers tent at the front. It makes my cheeks go hot and my pulse stutter.
I feel as though I have been run through an industrial dishwasher on a power clean cycle. My hair clings to my neck. I tuck damp strands behind my ears with hands that are still shaking.
“My patient will be here in a few minutes,” I tell him, trying, but failing, to find my professional voice.
“Of course,” he replies, calm as ever. “Why don’t you stop by my office at your first available opportunity. I would like to work out logistics sooner rather than later.”
“Logistics?” I echo, because it sounds like a business meeting.
“Yes. Even though HR shouldn’t take issue with us dating, I would like to formally notify them of the relationship to keep everything above board.”
A small, involuntary sound leaks out of me. “Are you serious?”
“Almost always,” he says without blinking. “At this moment? Entirely.”
I swallow, searching for words that make sense. “It’s just…I don’t think I understand.”
“What do you not understand?”
“Why you want to date me?” The question tumbles out of my mouth, clumsy but honest. I see the faint frown crease his forehead and hurry on, trying to explain before I can retreat.
“I’m not trying to be obtuse. I swear. I just don’t get it.
Yes, we are attracted to one another. I think we’ve proved that beyond question.
But you have better options. Women with shiny hair and cars that actually work.
Women with decent credit scores. Women who will smile sweetly when you’re being an ass rather than argue back.
Women who can stay up past ten p.m. on a school night and offer you undivided attention, which you will never get from me because my son will always come first. Why would you want me when you could have anyone? ”
By the time I stop talking my throat is raw and my eyes sting. I blink back tears before they can fall.
Arthur watches me for a long moment. So long that I am certain my words have made him decide to leave. He doesn’t.
“You’re right, Elliot,” he says at last. “I probably could have anyone, for two reasons. I’m rich and I’m famous.
There are women who would jump at the chance for the money alone.
God knows I’ve turned down enough of them in the last decade.
” He steps closer, and I watch his hands flex before he slides them into his pockets.
“I dated casually before I got hurt. But after my injury I had no interest in it. For ten years I didn’t want anyone.
But I want you. You’re smart. And funny.
And too damn beautiful for your own good.
And I can’t stop thinking about you. Haven’t been able to for months. “
My brain stutters. Breath comes in ragged pulls. Words feel like distant lights I can’t quite reach.
“If you think you might want me too—” he starts.
“I do,” I blurt. I’m not sure whether I am more surprised by my own voice or by the look that washes over his face. He searches my eyes, then nods once.
“Okay.”
“Okay.” I say the word back, and it tastes absurdly sweet and terrifying at once.
Before either of us can define the terms, voices drift down the hallway.
“And then after they announced her as the winner, the runner-up congratulated her and then he proposed to her! Right there on camera! Can you believe that?” Will enters the training room even more upbeat and excited than usual.
He’s accompanied by Ben who appears to be less enthusiastic about whatever they’re discussing.
“It was the most romantic thing I’ve ever seen!
Seriously. All the gingerbread fans have been shipping them for months. Holly looked like she was gonna cry!”
“Who?” Ben asks.
“Holly Vixen.”
“Sounds like a stripper name.”
“Seriously?” Will scoffs, throwing his arms wide like Ben has committed some great offense. “She’s the host of Project Gingerbread, man. I talk about her all the time! Right, Elliot?”
“It’s true,” I admit, trying my best to sound normal. I’ve never watched the reality TV show that Will is obsessed with but I’ve been meaning to look it up. I mean, it’s essentially a cookie competition. Sounds right up my alley.
“Thank you.” Will grins. “Oh, hey, Coach!” His whole face lights up when he spots Arthur.
Ben does a double take, eyes widening, while Arthur’s expression remains perfectly composed.
“Oliver,” Arthur says with a curt nod.
“Coach.” Ben returns the nod, though his gaze quickly shifts and lands on me. “Elliot.”
“Michaels,” Arthur acknowledges smoothly.
“Ben,” I echo, giving my own little nod because apparently nodding is the established ritual and I don’t want to be the odd one out.
Will bounces in place, then flashes me another grin. “I like what you’ve done with your hair, Elliot. It’s got more volume than usual.”
There isn’t even a trace of teasing in his tone, but my face still goes hot.
Because I know the reason my hair has more volume is that Arthur had his fingers tangled in it less than five minutes ago.
Arthur knows it too. His unreadable gaze flicks briefly to me.
And judging from the way Ben bites down on his lower lip, he has a pretty good idea too.
“New mousse,” I lie breezily, praying my voice doesn’t crack. “Ready to get started?”
“Do your worst.” Will plants himself on the treatment table, grinning far too happily for someone about to be put through his rehab paces.
Arthur gives one last nod, as if he’s completely immune to the chaos he just walked into. “I’ll leave you to it. I’ll be in my office whenever you’re free, Ms. Baker.”
“Sounds good,” I reply quickly, my voice too chipper.
Looking forward to it.