Chapter 12 #3
I can’t ask Jude. They already house us, feed us half the time, treat Maisie like a princess. Asking for cash would be too much. I have too much pride.
I need a second job. Something flexible. Something I can do in the evenings or early mornings before the shop opens.
I could waitress at the Smokehouse, maybe? But Mick usually hires locals who have been there for years.
I could clean houses? No, that takes too much time away from Maisie.
I stare at the piles of eucalyptus and rose thorns, feeling the panic rising in my chest. I’m always one step away from drowning, it seems. Just when I think I’ve found solid ground, the tide pulls me under.
The bell above the door chimes, jarring me from my spiral.
I check the clock. 8:30 p.m. Right on time.
I wipe my hands on my apron and smooth down my hair, trying to banish the worry from my face. I walk to the front of the shop.
Eli is standing there, snow dusting the shoulders of his coat. He’s holding a brown paper bag tied with twine, and he’s smiling that soft, crooked smile that makes my knees weak.
“Hey,” he says as I unlock the door and let him in.
“Hey yourself.”
He steps inside, bringing the cold air with him, but also that scent—vanilla, burnt sugar, and warmth. He locks the door behind him and pulls me into a kiss.
It’s a hello kiss, but it quickly deepens. His lips are soft, his hands settling on my waist, pulling me flush against him.
I melt into him, the stress of the phone call, the money, the renovation, all of it fading away in the presence of his touch.
When we finally break apart, he lifts the paper bag. “I brought you something. Chocolate croissants. Not lemon tarts this time, but I figured you needed a comfort food tonight.”
I take the bag, peeking inside. The smell of dark chocolate and butter wafts up. “You’re too good to me, Eli.”
“How are you holding up?” he asks, his eyes searching mine. “Texts seemed a bit frantic earlier. The cooler situation getting worse?”
The cooler. Right. That was the excuse I gave him for my bad mood.
“It’s… a mess,” I say, which isn’t a lie. “We have to clear everything out in two weeks. It’s overwhelming.”
“I can help,” he offers immediately. “I can rent a van and bring it over. We can move the inventory after service. It’ll take one trip.”
“You already do so much, plus Norah’s mates have got it handled for now. Thank you for offering though.”
“You don’t have to thank me, sweetheart. I just want to help.”
I look at him—this kind, generous, beautiful man who is offering to help me move heavy boxes in the snow. My heart aches with affection.
But my body has other needs. The stress of the day, the conversation with Stella, the financial weight… it’s all coiled tight in my muscles. I need release. I need to feel something other than panic.
I step into his space, my hands resting tentatively on the lapels of his coat. I don’t pull him in yet; I just wait. He doesn’t pull away. Instead, his hands find my waist, steadying me.
“You’re shaking,” he says softly, his gaze searching mine.
“I’m wound so tight, Eli,” I whisper, my hand sliding lower, hovering just over the belt of his jeans. I meet his eyes, letting the question hang there between us. “I need to not think for a while. With you.”
His breath hitches, but he doesn’t look startled. He looks hungry. He leans his forehead against mine, his grip tightening on my hips.
“Long day,” I breathe against his skin. “Can we skip the talking? I just need you.”
“Fuck. Uh-huh.”
“Yeah?” My hand slides down to the front of his jeans.I cup him through the denim, feeling the hard heat of him.
Eli inhales sharply, his eyes widening behind his glasses. “Yes, Amber.”
I rub his bulge through the denim, picturing just how good it will feel when he finally sinks into me.
“I need you, Elijah.”
He groans, a low sound that vibrates against my chest. He reaches up, cupping both my cheeks in his warm hands, forcing me to look at him. His eyes are dark, burning with an intensity that matches my own.
“You don’t have to tell me twice,” he says, and then he kisses me.
It’s not a sweet kiss this time. It’s hungry. Possessive. He kisses me like he’s starving, his tongue sweeping into my mouth, claiming me.
I moan, my fingers fumbling with the button of his coat, pushing it off his shoulders as we make our way to the back of the store.
He lets the coat drop to the floor and reaches for the hem of my sweater, tugging it upward. I break the kiss just long enough to pull it over my head, tossing it onto the nearest shelf.
I’m not wearing a bra—rarely do when I’m working late—and the cool air of the shop puckers my skin.
Eli doesn’t give me a chance to be modest. He backs me up against the counter, lifting me effortlessly so I’m sitting on the edge. He steps between my legs, his hands covering my breasts, his thumbs brushing over my nipples.
“You’re beautiful,” he murmurs, ducking his head to take one peak into his mouth.
I gasp, my head falling back, my fingers tangling in his hair. The sensation is electric, shooting straight down to my core.
I grind against him, needing more friction, more pressure. “Eli, please,” I beg.
He pulls back, his breathing ragged. He reaches into his back pocket and pulls out his wallet, extracting a foil packet. He tosses it onto the counter next to my hip.
“Hold on,” he says.
He unbuttons my jeans, sliding them and my panties down my legs in one swift motion. I kick them off, sending them flying into a pile of ferns.
He doesn’t waste time. He sheds his own clothes quickly, his movements urgent. He rolls the condom then positions himself at my entrance.
Hooking my knees over his elbows, he opens me up completely.
“Look at me,” he commands.
I meet his gaze, my heart hammering against my ribs. He pushes forward, sinking into me in one smooth stroke.
I cry out, my back arching off the counter. He fills me perfectly, stretching me, completing me. He doesn’t wait for me to adjust.
He starts to move, his hips snapping against mine, driving into me with a force that makes the pots on the shelf rattle.
It’s exactly what I need. It’s hard and fast and dirty. I dig my nails into his shoulders, holding on for dear life.
The sound of skin slapping against skin echoes through the quiet shop, mixing with our heavy breathing and the wet sounds of our coupling.
“You feel so good,” he grunts, his forehead resting against mine. “So tight, Amber.”
I can’t speak. I can only moan as he hits that spot inside me, the one that makes my vision blur. The tension in my body, the anxiety in my mind—it all coils tighter and tighter, preparing to snap.
“Eli, I’m close,” I gasp.
“Let go,” he says, his voice rough. “Come for me.”
He shifts the angle slightly, grinding against my clit with every thrust.
That’s all it takes.
I explode. My orgasm rips through me, intense and overwhelming. I scream his name, my inner walls clamping down around him, milking his cock.
“Fuck!” Eli shouts, his rhythm faltering. He buries himself deep inside me, his hips jerking as he finds his own release.
We stay like that for a long moment, locked together, our chests heaving, our breath mingling in the cold air. The shop is silent again, save for the ticking of the clock and the hum of the refrigerator in the back.
Eli presses a soft kiss to my forehead, then to my lips. He gently pulls out, disposing of the condom in the trash can under the counter.
He helps me down from the counter, my legs trembling like jelly. He pulls me into his arms, wrapping me in his warmth.
“Better?” he asks, a smug satisfaction in his tone.
I bury my face in his chest, inhaling the scent of sex and sugar. “Much. Thank you.”
“Anytime,” he says, rubbing my back. “Now, can we talk or do I need to fuck you one more time?”
I laugh, the sound muffled against his chest. I am here, in his arms, and I am safe.
“We can talk.”
Eli presses another kiss to my forehead. He’s all tenderness now, a far cry from the man who’d had me pinned against the counter only seconds ago.
He steps back, his hands moving to pick up his T-shirt, which he discarded on the floor earlier.
“Hold on,” he says, pulling the fabric over his head. “Let me get something to clean you up.”
He walks over to the prep sink, wetting a handful of paper towels. He comes back to me, his expression soft, almost reverent as he reaches between my legs.
I hiss at the contact, my skin still sensitive.
“Sorry,” he whispers, dabbing gently.
“It’s okay. I think I’m still not used to your… size.”
That earns me another smile from him.
He’s careful, thorough. When he’s done, he hands me a dry cloth, and I finish the job, adjusting my clothes with shaky hands.
Then he reaches for his own jeans. He doesn’t put them on immediately. Instead, he leans back against the counter, his hand dropping to his groin.
The knot is there—a swollen, angry-looking ring of flesh at the base of his shaft. It didn’t fully inflate because of the condom, didn’t lock us together, but it’s substantial enough to be uncomfortable.
It’s a biological remnant of his Alpha nature, a physical proof of how much he wants me. And I watch, fascinated, as he begins to massage it.
His thumb presses into the swollen tissue, working the blood back down the shaft. His jaw tightens, and a low groan rumbles in his chest.
“You okay?” I ask, pulling my sweater back down.
“Uh-huh,” he says through gritted teeth, his eyes squeezing shut.
“I’ll never get used to seeing you do that,” I admit, watching his hand work. It’s intimate. A side of Alpha biology most people never see.
He lets out a harsh breath as the swelling finally recedes enough for him to pull his boxers and jeans back up. He buttons his fly with a sigh of relief.
“Okay,” he says, washing his hands at the sink again. “Hygiene restored.”
I join him at the sink, scrubbing my hands with the floral-scented soap. The water is hot, soothing my chilled fingers.