Chapter 12
ELARA
Be in the moment, Elle.
Even his neck is muscular, hard ridges pressing against my fingernails as I cling to him. I’m not even sure exactly how we got here, only that it’s a thousand times more exciting than my fantasy ever could’ve been.
His touch burns through the thin fabric of my PJ bottoms as he gets closer to my sex.
Be in the fucking moment.
But when he leans in, looks at me, moonlight catches in his eyes. And there was a time, an event that has nothing to do with this, when moonlight glinted in another man’s eyes when he leaned in and tried to kiss me and…
“Elle, are you—”
I grab his face and kiss him hard, not giving him time to finish the question, which doesn’t give me any time to answer. I don’t want to go there. I just want to be here with him, this handsome, rugged stranger.
He groans and squeezes down on my leg, sending a jolt of heat right to my core. My body aches, clit rubbing raw against my underwear. I’m not even slightly satiated from getting myself off earlier. The real thing is so much hotter.
He moans like he needs me, like he’s been waiting for this since we first met a few days ago.
His hand glides higher and higher. When he pushes down on my heat, I gasp, arching my back, grinding down against him.
You’ll have no one but me.
No, no. Not now. Not here. This isn’t fair.
“Elle?” Rhett says breathlessly.
I roll onto my side, reach down, and rub my hand against the outside of his pants. He snarls, shuddering.
“Just keep going,” I moan. “Be wild, Rhett. Brutal. I know that’s how you want it.”
His eyes snap open, lips trembling. “Eh-Elle,” he whispers.
I rub even faster, feeling the shape of him through his pants, his arousal imprisoned by his briefs. He feels massive and already rock-solid for me.
His hand hesitates against my crotch, but I can feel the hunger in him.
It’s the tremor in his fingers that tells me, his rough digits brushing against the material of my clothes, tickling my clit, making me squeeze my legs together.
I grab his wrist and try to make him rub harder, fiercer, even angrier.
Just to blot it out. His face, Lucian smiling, and the sick, impossible idea that he could somehow return to my life.
I grip Rhett’s wrist harder, driving him against my core. I rock my hips and rub my clit against his palm. The beast in him loosens, and he growls, taking control. I gasp and wriggle against him, barely able to keep stroking the hard rod of his cock through the convulsions.
But then he appears again… the time he leaned in for a kiss, the sick smirk on his face. He’s nothing like Rhett. Lucian goddamn Conti is nothing like this strong, protective man.
“What is it?” Rhett snarls, but his hand is still pulsing, moving with relentless abandon against my pussy.
“Nuh-nothing,” I lie, letting go of his thick steel to grab his wrist with both hands, guide his movements, make them rougher, more likely to obliterate the unhelpful thoughts in my head.
“Elle,” he snarls. “Sunshine, fuck…”
He smooths the other hand to my hip and holds me tight, then starts lavishing my pussy with attention. I close my eyes and focus on nothing else except the heat of his hand, the sound of his growling approval, the conflicted hunger in his tone.
I press my hands against his chest, feeling firm muscle against my fingernails.
And I block—him—out…
Fuck.
The orgasm hits me, and nothing else exists or matters. I squeeze my legs tightly around his hand, trapping him there. He leans down and kisses my cheek softly. I shudder and tremble all over, breaking for him, then pull away.
Because he still won’t leave my head. And without a white-hot orgasm to focus on, the memories are harder to avoid. It’s so unfair. The two are nothing alike, a million miles apart.
Rhett moves down the bed, eyes fixed on me. Then he stands slowly and walks to the window.
“I’m sorry,” I murmur, still shaking.
His shoulders tense, thick fingers curling into fists. Then he forces himself to relax. “You don’t need to apologize,” he snarls. “I know it must be… Well, it can be difficult.”
“Yeah,” I say softly, drawing my knees to my chest.
“I just need a minute.” He laughs darkly. “You’re like a… hell, Elle.”
“What?” I whisper.
“A fucking spell,” he groans.
Something like victory grips me, and I resist the real urge to do a little dance. I wish emotions were simple. I wish I could be just trapped in the past or just insanely proud that I make him lose control like that. Not confusingly both.
“It wasn’t you,” I tell him.
“You don’t have to explain.” He turns and sits on the edge of the bed.
“Will you hold me?” I ask softly. Maybe that would be okay, be enough for now. But also, maybe he’s a guy with hot blood and needs, and he’s going to try something.
“I’ll hold you all night long,” he says huskily. “Just ignore the shaking. That’s me hanging on for dear life.” His tone is ironic, but the words land as if they’re real, as if he means them. “Come here, Sunshine.”
He lies on the bed. I shuffle closer to him, wincing as images of Lucian punch into my mind. I lay my head against Rhett’s chest and listen to his heartbeat as it thuds against my ear.
I should tell him. But I don’t want to talk about that, not now, not ever.
His fingers swirl through my hair, sending a tingling sensation through my body. “Elle,” he says, his tone heavy.
“Yeah?” My voice comes out sleepy. I didn’t expect to feel so relaxed so fast, but his warm arms are like thick blankets, and his bulk is like a fortress.
He clears his throat. “I know.”
“You know what?”
“I… I know,” he says, letting his words hang there.
It takes me a moment, but then it finally hits me. So hard I almost pull away from him.
He knows. About Lucian. About my tragedy.
Did he look me up? Or did someone recognize me and say something to him? Maybe he saw the newspaper article somehow.
“You know,” I repeat.
He squeezes me tightly against him. “I can explain.”
I do something strange, or maybe it’s not strange. It’s probably what Mira, and I did after what happened to Mom and Dad. I build a box in record time, label it Pandora’s, then shove all my messy crap in there.
“I don’t want you to explain or to know anything,” I snap. “The way I see it, we’re boyfriend and girlfriend, and we have an easy, fun relationship. No big revelations. No emotional sucker punches. Okay?”
“Elle—”
“Okay?”
He squeezes me again. “Okay, Sunshine. Okay.”
I don’t realize I’m panting until he agrees, my chest collapsing then inflating rapidly. My throat hurts from dragging in the ragged breaths. I hug tightly against him, because that night is back.
Mom and Dad and the blackness. And Mira alone during it all.
I wake to sunshine on my face and the smell and sound of frying bacon. Mira’s laughter rings out like a bell. I can just see them there, Dad grinning over at her, pancake batter on his face, Mira’s eyes wide and—and obviously, it’s not Dad. But for a second there, it feels like it.
I sit up, rubbing my eyes.
I know.
The words from last night replay in my mind as I pull on my robe and walk into the living-room-kitchen area. Rhett stands at the stove, winking over at Mira, pancake batter on his face. I blink, drinking in the scene.
The streaks of silver in Rhett’s hair glisten in the morning light. Mira turns to me, bug-eyed and excited. “Look, Sissy!”
I laugh, and Rhett smiles in relief. “Can I have some?” I ask.
He grins. “Sure, Sunshine. You can have extra.”
“Not more than me!” Mira yells, giggling.