Chapter 5
Elijah
The fourth floor of the Sterling University library smelled like decaying paper, desperation, and cheap energy drinks. It was a sensory profile I usually avoided at all costs, preferring the climate-controlled sterility of my penthouse.
But "Elijah Vance, Doting Boyfriend" didn't study in a penthouse. He studied in the trenches with his girl.
I sat in a wooden chair that was wreaking havoc on my lower back, watching Angela Moretti try to dismantle a human skeleton diagram with the intensity of a bomb disposal expert.
"The greater trochanter," she muttered, tapping her pen against her bottom lip. Tap. Tap. Tap. "Connects to the gluteus medius. Which acts as a stabilizer for the... oh god, what does it stabilize?"
"The pelvis during the gait cycle," I answered without looking up from my laptop.
Angela stopped tapping. She lowered her highlighter and glared at me over the top of her textbook. "You aren't even taking Anatomy. You’re a Finance major. How do you know that?"
"I’m an athlete, Angela. My body is my business model. Knowing how the machinery works is part of the job."
I leaned back, stretching my legs out under the table. My foot brushed against hers. She didn't pull away. That was new. Three days into our "arrangement," and the flinching had stopped. Now, there was just a hyper-awareness. A magnetic field that hummed whenever we were within a three-foot radius.
"Show-off," she grumbled, returning to her diagram.
I watched her. I couldn't help it.
She was wearing a fuzzy white sweater that looked ridiculously soft, slipping off one shoulder to reveal the strap of a black tank top underneath. Her hair was pulled up in a chaotic bun, held together by sheer willpower and a single pencil.
She looked soft. Harmless.
But I knew better. I knew that under the table, her leg was bouncing with enough kinetic energy to power a small city. I knew that if I pushed her, she would push back.
"Stop bouncing your leg," I murmured.
"I can't," she whispered back. "I’m caffeinated and terrified. If I don't get an A on this midterm, my GPA drops to a 3.8, and then I spiral into mediocrity, and then I end up dancing in a dinner theater production of Oklahoma! in Nebraska."
I reached under the table. My hand—my good left hand—landed on her knee. I squeezed, just enough to ground her.
"Breathe," I ordered.
She froze. Her eyes snapped to mine. Her pupils blew wide, swallowing the brown iris. The library was full of students—people walking by, whispering, staring at the "Golden Couple"—but in that moment, the world narrowed down to the heat of my palm on her denim-clad thigh.
"You’re controlling," she breathed.
"I’m helpful."
"You’re distracting."
"I’m motivation." I slid my hand higher, just an inch. A warning. A promise. "Focus, Angela. The sooner you finish, the sooner we can go home."
Home.
The word hung between us, heavy and intimate. For the last three nights, "home" had been a strange purgatory. We ate dinner together. We watched movies. We brushed our teeth at the double vanity. It was domestic cosplay.
But when the lights went out, she went to the guest room, and I went to the master, and I lay awake staring at the ceiling, wondering what sound she would make if I walked down the hall and did the things I wanted to do.
"Hey, Vance."
I didn't move my hand from her leg, but I turned my head. A group of guys from the lacrosse team was walking past. They were eyeing Angela with a mixture of curiosity and jealousy.
"Hey," I said, my voice flat.
"Saw the clip of you checking Jenkins into the boards at practice," one of them said, grinning. "Brutal. Heard he’s out for the season?"
"Unfortunate accident," I lied smoothly.
The guy’s eyes drifted to Angela. To my hand on her thigh. He nodded, a flicker of understanding passing over his face. "Right. Accident. Catch you later, man."
They walked away.
Angela let out a breath she’d been holding. "They know."
"They suspect," I corrected. "Which is the point."
I removed my hand from her leg. The loss of contact was immediate and annoying. I wanted it back. I wanted to map the muscle of her quad, to find the sensitive spot on her inner thigh that would make her gasp.
"Pack up," I said, closing my laptop. "We’re done here."
"I have three more chapters to review!"
"You can review them at the penthouse," I said, standing up and grabbing her backpack. "I’m hungry. And this place smells like failure."
She rolled her eyes, but she started stacking her books. "You know, for a fake boyfriend, you’re incredibly bossy."
"I’m not a fake boyfriend right now," I said, leaning down to whisper in her ear. "Right now, I’m the man who owns your debt. And I say we’re leaving."
She shivered. A visible ripple that started at her neck and went down her spine.
"Yes, Sir," she muttered, the sarcasm barely masking the submission.
I smirked. God, I loved breaking her.
The drive back to the Summit was silent, but it wasn't empty.
The interior of the Aston Martin was a cocoon of leather and low engine rumble. Angela sat in the passenger seat, staring out at the passing streetlights, her hand resting on the center console.
I drove with my left hand on the wheel. My right hand, still wrapped in black medical tape, rested on my thigh. It throbbed—a dull, rhythmic ache that synced with my heartbeat.
" Does it hurt?" Angela asked, not looking away from the window.
"It’s fine."
"You keep flexing it."
"I’m testing the mobility."
She turned to look at me. "You’re stubborn. You should be icing it."
"I’ll ice it when we get home."
"I’ll help you," she said.
I glanced at her. Her expression was open, earnest. The "Brat" was gone, replaced by the Caretaker. It was a dangerous shift. When she was bratty, I could dominate her. When she was sweet... I wanted to keep her.
"Careful, Moretti," I warned, downshifting as we hit the incline up to the tower. "You sound like you actually like me."
"I don't like you," she said quickly. Too quickly. "I just... I appreciate the structure. My life was chaos before this. Now, everything is paid. Everything is scheduled. It’s... quiet."
"Quiet is good."
"Quiet is lonely," she countered.
I pulled the car into the private garage, the heavy steel gate clanging shut behind us. I cut the engine. The silence rushed in.
"You aren't lonely," I said, unbuckling my seatbelt. "You have me."
"That’s the problem," she whispered.
I froze. I looked at her. "Explain."
She unbuckled her belt and turned in the seat to face me, pulling one knee up.
"You’re confusing, Elijah. You tell me I’m yours.
You make me sign a contract that gives you rights to my body.
But you haven't... you haven't done anything. You touch me in public like I’m precious cargo, but the second we’re alone, you treat me like a roommate. It’s messing with my head."
"We have a schedule," I said, gripping the steering wheel. "Phase One is integration. Phase Two is—"
"Screw the schedule!" she snapped.
She opened the door and got out, slamming it hard enough to rock the chassis.
I sat there for a second, stunned. Then, a dark, hot amusement curled in my gut.
There she is.
I got out and followed her to the elevator. She was stabbing the button with her finger.
"You’re angry," I observed, coming up behind her.
"I’m frustrated!" she spun around, her eyes flashing. "I’m a twenty-year-old virgin living with an underwear model who insists on playing chess instead of... of..."
"Instead of fucking you?" I supplied helpfully.
Her face flamed scarlet. "Yes! No! I don't know!"
The elevator doors opened. She marched in. I followed, hitting the penthouse button.
"You’re a virgin, Angela," I said calmly, leaning against the mirrored wall. "I am not going to rush that. When it happens, it will be because you begged for it. Not because you were bored on a Tuesday."
"I’m not bored," she huffed. "I’m sexually frustrated. There’s a difference."
I choked back a laugh. "You’re sexually frustrated? You?"
"Yes! You walk around half-naked. You smell good. You have those... hands." She gestured vaguely at me. "And you look at me like you want to eat me, but then you just hand me a protein shake and tell me to do my homework. It’s sadistic!"
The elevator chimed. The doors opened into the penthouse.
She stormed out, kicking off her boots near the foyer. She threw her backpack onto the sofa and started pacing the living room.
I locked the door. I threw my keys in the bowl. And then I watched her.
She was vibrating with energy. She needed an outlet.
"Stretch," I said.
She stopped pacing. "What?"
"You’re wound tight. You’re stressed about the exam. You’re stressed about me. Do your ballet stretches. Work it out."
She looked at me defiantly. Then, without breaking eye contact, she walked to the center of the room. She kicked off her sneakers. She peeled off her socks.
She stood in first position, heels together, toes out. She took a deep breath, raising her arms.
And then she began to move.
It wasn't the polite, rigid ballet of the stage. It was fluid, angry, and deeply erotic. She folded herself in half, her nose touching her knees. She extended a leg high into the air, holding it there with impossible strength.
I walked over to the sofa and sat down, loosening my tie. I didn't take my eyes off her.
She knew I was watching. The performance shifted. She arched her back, exposing the long line of her throat. She sank into a split, her hips flush with the black marble floor.
It was a taunt. A physical challenge.
Look but don't touch.
"Is this helping?" I asked, my voice dropping to a low rumble.
"I don't know," she said, breathing hard. She was on the floor, legs spread wide in a straddle split, leaning forward on her elbows. "Is it helping you?"
She looked up at me through her lashes.
That was it. The thread of my control snapped.
I stood up. I crossed the room in three strides.
"Get up," I commanded.
She scrambled to her feet, sensing the shift in the atmosphere. She backed up until her shoulders hit the wall near the hallway.