17. Ava
17
AVA
I mmediately, he stiffens, but I don’t pull back. No, I stand firm, holding onto his shirt as I take a small nibble of his bottom lip. And it’s that bite, that hint of pain, that snaps him out of his rigidness. Elijah Ford kisses me back, overtaking my senses as he growls low at the back of his throat, his tongue sliding against my lip, demanding entrance.
An entrance that I grant without hesitation.
This kiss is everything; it’s passionate and bordering on desperation with just the right hint of sweetness I’ll never find with anyone else. Elijah's kiss is possessive, fully overwhelming my senses as our tongues intertwine and explore. His large, strong hands cup the back of my neck, thumbs tilting my head to the angle he prefers. He controls this. Me.
Giving me what I need with his touch. Hard yet gentle. A delicious overtaking.
My tongue swipes the very tip of his, flicking it before pulling back to suck his top lip, and a hungry groan escapes him. It tumbles through me, settling on my clit, and I throb—squeezing my thighs tight as my panties become slick with my arousal.
I’m wet and tender. For him. All for him.
My nipples ache, and I can’t stop myself from rubbing my chest against his. This time his animalistic sound is almost angry and I shiver, shifting closer, and there’s no mistaking the hardness now digging into my abdomen.
How it pulses, flexing against the inside of his jeans the more we kiss.
My hands itch to touch him. To explore.
“Oh God,” I whimper, and that small sound stops him. It’s like a bucket of cold water being thrown over my head; the way he abruptly pulls his mouth from mine makes me feel like an idiot. Like I ruined everything. Elijah doesn’t release his hold on my head, though, but instead stares down at me, making me feel self-conscious. “I’m so?—”
“Don’t.” It’s gravelly. So hungry. “I’m not.”
“You’re not?”
“Not even a little.” His thumb rubs across my cheek once while his other hand takes one of mine, squeezing my fingers slightly. “But one thing at a time. How about dinner and some light get-to-know-you conversation before I kiss you again?”
“Again?” I raise a brow, and the tension in my shoulders drops. He’s being playful; that’s a good thing, and I follow his lead. “I made the first move.”
“That’s only because I let you.”
“Are you kidding me?” My blue eyes narrow, my teeth aching to bite him again. Harder.
“What can I say? I’m irresistible.” With that, he brings his lips to mine once more in a quick and soul-destroying kiss before pulling back. I’m a bit dazed after—smiling—but ready to smack him when he winks. “Now, feed me, woman. I want to cuddle with you on the couch and watch a movie afterward.”
I’m so easy when it comes to him that holding myself back is nearly impossible after that first taste.
I’m truly and utterly screwed here.
Watching him enjoy the meal I made is sexual torture.
I’m sitting at the head of the table with Elijah to my right, a placement chosen for me while I was busy changing my shirt. I also couldn’t argue with his nonsensical seating arrangement, especially with that devilish smirk and challenging gaze aimed at me.
The cook always has special privileges, sweetheart. Get used to it.
I was about to ask about those “privileges” when Eli shook his head and led me to my chair before taking his seat. He’s so close. His scent enveloped me.
Which led me to my current predicament...
Watching this man enjoy the food I made is downright a sinful experience. Almost as panty-destroying as our earlier kisses.
Every compliment. Every moan.
Even the grunts between serving himself a second and third helping aren’t conducive to good behavior on my part.
I want to climb onto his lap and taste that mouth again, especially as he lifts the bottle of imported beer and takes a deep pull. The way his throat bobs with each swallow makes my thighs clench, and I barely remain seated as he licks the stray drop of Dos Equis sitting at the corner of his lips.
It makes me want to lick him from root to tip. Taste him everywhere.
Behave. We can’t. Must resist.
Exhaling slowly, I eat another forkful of my green enchilada. The bite is fiery, a tangy explosion with its smoky pepper sauce that clings to the soft, corn tortilla. The intense heat builds: a pleasant zing that melds perfectly with the seasoned, shredded chicken and the Oaxaca cheese.
Then, there’s the refreshing crema. It compliments and cools my tingly lips, making for a dangerous combination.
I want more. I should be devouring my meal.
But I can’t stop watching him.
Jesus, I am a mess for this man. Broke first.
Swallowing, I grin at him. Keep it as normal as possible. “Is it good?”
“That was motherfucking fantastic, sweetheart,” Elijah groans, patting his sculpted abs after placing his fork down. “I’m going to need to up my workouts with you living here.”
I’m trying hard not to read too much into that statement, but I can’t help the butterflies fluttering in my stomach. Acknowledge how easy it would be to give in to my desires and...
“Favorite color?”
He says out of nowhere and I arch a brow, head tilting to the side. “What?”
“Come on, sweetheart, humor me here.” His eyes crinkle a bit at the corners; he’s amused. “This is a first-date protocol, and small talk is mandatory. I already told you this.”
“You mean you don’t appreciate my preference for quiet meals?” My mock indignation isn’t fooling anyone. Neither are the goosebumps rising on my arms as his declaration of this being a date sets in.
First date. Meaning there could be more:
Kisses. Touches. Eventually bending me over?—
“We both know you were admiring the view.” Cocky. A little flirtation.
“Was not.” I lift my chin high while denying it. “But if you insist, we do this rapid-fire style.”
“And we take turns.”
“Sounds like a plan.” My tone is still a bit snooty as I take a sip from my wine glass. The sweet notes from the Riesling pair perfectly with the richness of the sauces. A delicious balance. “And to answer your question, I’m a purple and black girly through and through.”
“That’s two colors, Ava,” Elijah says, shaking his head. “Pick one.”
“That, Detective, is a lie,” I counter, narrowing my eyes. Lips in a pout. “If we treat it like an ombre, it’s just one.”
“That’s cheating.” He laughs, rolling his eyes at me. It’s good to see him like this, relaxed and enjoying himself. Since I’ve been here, all he does is work, exercise, and then back to work. Rinse and repeat. Providing this brief break for the man who’s vowed to protect me, filled his kitchen with everything I could need to bake, and appreciates said food...
No words. Just pure pleasure.
“You haven’t answered.” I tease.
“Blue.”
It’s my turn to roll my eyes. “That’s such a guy answer.”
“It’s also the color of your eyes.”
Fuck. Me.
I almost say it, too, but choose to behave instead. “Favorite go-to meal when feeling lazy?”
His stare is smoldering, almost as if he heard my earlier thought. There’s a hint of a challenge there, too. “Peanut butter and jelly sandwiches.”
“Bagel pizza.” And yeah, I take another drink from my glass. Multiple little sips. “Right side of the bed or left?”
“Always the right,” he answers quickly and leans closer, his knee brushing against mine. His scent wraps around me like a velvet stroke across my senses. “Unless you want to?—”
“Left,” I interject, cutting him off from whatever temptation he was going to throw my way. Pushing my plate away, I sit back and finish my wine. For a few minutes, neither of us says anything, yet the ever-present electrical pulse that flows between us sizzles.
There’s no denying the wetness in my panties or the sensitivity of my skin, a heightened problem as my chest stretches the fabric of my small top. My nipples are throbbing stiff peaks, something my detective takes notice of right away. His Adam’s apple bobs, and the hand around his beer bottle clenches.
That earlier kiss did nothing but solidify how easy this could be.
Our easy banter further proves that he’s perfect for me.
Yet, it’s the throb of my clit that has me blurting out, “One more before dessert?”
“Is it chocolate?”
“Obscenely so.”
“Then hit me, so I can get my sugar on. Chocolate and your lips.”
He’s not making this easy on me.
“Cats or dogs?” I ask, ignoring his words. This is the only question that could be a deal-breaker for me. I’m an animal lover. I always wanted?—
“Why pick when you can have one of each?” His answer crumbles the last of my walls, and without pause, I lean forward, slip my fingers into his hair, and tug his mouth down to mine. The kiss is passionate and raw—bites and strokes of the tongue—and the perfect ending to our meal.
Screw dessert. His drugging kisses are all I need.
I’ll deal with the repercussions later. Much later.