19. Elizabeth
I’ve heard that a side effect of surviving an explosion is a high-pitched ringing in your ears.
Turns out that’s true even if the explosion is only internal.
What was I thinking? Why did I do something so monumentally stupid?
I know where my sister’s priorities lie.
I know better than to put myself in a situation that pits me against her husband—because Jane has never chosen me over him.
I should have taken a deep breath and then backed Todd into a corner so he had no choice but to beg me for mercy.
But instead, I let my emotions get the best of me.
I lost control.
The ringing in my ears intensifies and my head spins. Suddenly, a large, warm hand envelopes my wrist. “Jacobs, you have to stop!”
I blink. I’m outside. It’s dark. A car drives past, closer than expected. I look down—and oh.
I almost stepped off the sidewalk and into traffic.
I almost died because of Todd fucking Andrews.
Pressure builds in my chest, bubbling up until I can’t hold it back anymore. A laugh bursts out of my mouth—but it’s an ugly, uncanny sound.
“What the hell, Elizabeth?”
I look at Wes and am met with a stern expression. I had no idea he could look stern. But wow, he can really pull it off. Brow furrowed, mouth in a straight line, whisky eyes filled with an impenetrable look.
For some reason, this makes me laugh even harder. I try to take a breath, but end up wheezing, noisily sucking in air even as the maniacal cackling continues.
Todd would have been so damn smug if I’d died. As if I wouldn’t haunt his ass for the rest of his life, making the bathroom floor extra cold in the winter and always stealing just one sock from each pair.
A bus drives by, fast enough to create a breeze.
“Can you please, for the love of God, step away from the curb so that you don’t die in front of me, thereby creating yet another crisis that I’m involved in and don’t know how to handle?”
My laughing fit ends. I blink again. I step away from the curb. And toward Wes Grant.
“Thank you,” he says, his eyes raking over me. “Let’s get you some food.”
I shake my head. There’s no way I could eat right now. But Wes looks incredibly unimpressed by this. “When was the last time you ate?”
I’m annoyed by the question. But now that I’m thinking about it, I don’t know the answer. I ordered a French dip for Jack and a protein bowl for Wes. I wanted the grilled halloumi salad, but they were out of it. So I didn’t have lunch.
I did have breakfast though—didn’t I? I slept through my alarm and was in a rush. But I ate a container of yogurt, right? It was in the mini fridge. It was blueberry, and I took it out and then…there wasn’t a spoon with the rest of the utensils in the room, for some reason. So I didn’t eat it.
Before that was the mad dash from Connecticut to La Guardia to catch the flight to D.C. And before that…
“Ice cream.”
“They had ice cream at the conference?”
I shake my head. “Yesterday. But then David called and—”
“You’re coming with me,” Wes says, interrupting as he takes my wrist again, all but dragging me around the corner with him. I try to pull away, but his grip is tight. “Stop fighting.”
“Wes, you don’t—”
“You cannot be trusted right now,” he says. “I swear I’m not going to make you talk. But I am going to make sure you eat.”
“Wes,” I say through gritted teeth, my temper flaring. “Let go of me.”
“No.”
I stop walking and jerk my arm back as hard as I can. Wes stumbles, but still doesn’t let go of my wrist. Once he’s straightened, he turns around and gives me a long, assessing look. “You need to eat.”
“I know,” I say. “And I will. I’m a grown woman. I don’t need you dragging me around Logan Circle. I’m perfectly capable of taking care of myself.”
He arches an eyebrow, unconvinced. Based on what he’s just witnessed, it’s fair. But now that I’ve snapped out of my spiral, I don’t need to be told what to do. I don’t need to be coddled. What I need…
I bite the inside of my cheek. I know exactly what I need. I look at Wes’s hand, still wrapped around my wrist, and all my instincts buck like a wild horse when a cowboy tries to break it. But something low in my stomach tightens at the same time.
I’ve known since that afternoon in Bahrain that Wes and I have a certain compatibility. I thought he might ask for it that night in Monaco.
But even if he asked very, very nicely, I couldn’t say yes.
He’s a client.
But God, it’d be so much fun to be the person Wes Grant surrenders all his control to.
“Okay then,” Wes says, releasing my wrist. “What are you going to eat?”
I point to a Chinese place that’s still open. “Satisfied?”
“Not yet,” he says, grinning in that annoyingly smoldering way of his. “After you.”
I give him my most unimpressed glare, but walk into the restaurant and go to the counter. After I’ve ordered orange chicken and crab Rangoon, Wes jumps in, adding beef and broccoli to the order before handing his card to the cashier.
“I’m telling Camden about this.”
Wes gasps before clutching his chest. “I didn’t even order fried rice!”
Before I can stop it, I laugh.
“Wow,” Wes says, wonder filling his voice. “Yet another real laugh from Elizabeth Jacobs.”
I recall the conversation about how I’m the downfall of the polar ice caps, and wipe the smile from my face immediately. “Don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“You’re right. I must have imagined it.”
I don’t look at him again. But I also don’t hold back my smile.
It’s 1:18am, and I can’t sleep.
I keep tossing and turning. I can’t turn off my brain. I can’t ignore the craving that’s gnawing at my bones, the desire pulsing through my veins.
I need control.
And I know how I could get it.
It’s a terrible, irresponsible idea that I’ve been refusing to entertain for weeks. But I’m at the point where I no longer care. I’ll deal with the consequences later.
So I follow my instincts and arrive at a door down the hall.
In my haste, I didn’t stop to consider that it’s the middle of the night. Or how presumptuous I’m being. Or how I’ll likely end up walking back to my room unsatisfied.
I knock anyway.
And I hide my surprise when the door opens.
“Elizabeth,” Wes says. He’s bare chested, clad in only a pair of black briefs and a hotel robe that he clearly just threw on. He didn’t even bother tying it. His dark hair is tousled, but he’s not bleary-eyed and his voice isn’t thick with sleep. He must have been tossing and turning, too.
I can feel his eyes on me, and I consider what sort of mess I must look like right now: no makeup, my hair a tangled mess, barefoot and in a black silk nightgown trimmed in lace.
But when I meet his gaze, he doesn’t look confused or embarrassed.
No, his eyes are wild and hungry in a way that I understand.
I step into the room, crowding Wes until he backs up and lets the door close. “Do you have a condom?”
His eyebrows shoot up in surprise, but his voice is calm. “Yes.”
“Get it.” It’s a command, not a request.
Wes’s tongue darts out, wetting his lips. “Just to clarify. Am I giving you a condom so you can fuck someone else, or are you proposing that we use it together?”
I grit my teeth, annoyed that he didn’t immediately do what he was told. But he’s right to question me. If we’re doing this, it needs to be consensual. He needs to understand what this is. I take a deep breath. “It’s less a proposal and more a demand.”
Wes inhales sharply, nods, and goes into the bathroom, emerging a few moments later with a gold foil packet. He places it in the middle of my outstretched palm.
“Good,” I say. “Now take off your clothes.”
Wes’s mouth twitches but, for once, he keeps the wisecrack to himself. He drops the robe from his shoulders, letting it pool at his feet.
I’ve seen him like this in photos from magazines highlighting his leanly muscular physique, in videos of him climbing into ice baths that prominently display the tattoo made up of the tracks he’s won at on his right thigh.
But there is a big difference between looking at photos and videos, and seeing the living, breathing version in front of you.
There’s no denying Wes Grant is handsome, just like there’s no denying his body is a masterclass in discipline and hard work.
But I don’t let any of that appreciation show on my face and wait for him to continue doing as I asked.
He keeps his eyes on mine as he hooks his thumbs in the waistband of his briefs and smoothly shucks the material down his legs. Seeing just how hard he is when I’ve done nothing but order him to get a condom and disrobe makes my blood thrum.
“Go lay on the bed.” Considering that he is very likely as much a brat in bed as he is in everyday life, I add, “On your back.”
He nods once, then turns around and walks to the bed. I take in the long lines of his body, relishing that he’s following my directions. When he’s on the bed, he looks at me expectantly. Though I suspect he craves this, I can tell that it’s new for him. He’s not used to being submissive.
I move from my spot by the door, taking my time as I make my way to the foot of the bed. Wes opens his mouth, but I cut him off. “Don’t speak.” He closes it and a victorious little thrill shoots through my nervous system.
I know I’m going about this all wrong, skipping over things I normally never would with a partner. I need to slow down. I need to be thorough.
I take a deep breath. “Don’t speak, but nod if you want a safe word other than ‘stop’.”
Wes’s eyes widen and a curious little smile crosses his face before he nods.
“Tell me the word.”
He grins wickedly. “Box.”
I don’t care what word a partner chooses. I’ve heard everything from “pickle” to “gyroscope.” I usually just accept it, no questions asked. But this time, a smile tugs at my lips. “Box? Like ‘my dick in a—’”
“Boxenstopp,” Wes says, clarifying. “It’s the German word for pitstop. It’s why our engineers say ‘box, box’ during a race.”
Well that clears up a question I didn’t even realize I had. It’s also a very clever choice—but he definitely does not need to know I think that.