Chapter 10
Angela
Waking up in Elijah Vance’s bed was like waking up inside a storm cloud that had decided, just for a moment, to be still.
The light filtering through the floor-to-ceiling blackout curtains was grey and muted, casting the room in a heavy, slate-colored haze. The air was cool, processed by the silent HVAC system of the penthouse, but under the duvet, the heat was tropical.
I lay perfectly still, staring at the charcoal wall opposite the bed, trying to catalog the sensations in my body before my brain could catch up to the reality of what I had done.
My legs felt heavy, like I had run a marathon in quicksand.
My inner thighs ached with a dull, sweet throb that pulsed in time with my heartbeat.
My lips felt swollen, tender to the touch of my tongue.
And there was a scent clinging to my skin—cedar, expensive scotch, and the distinct, musky salt of sex—that branded me more effectively than any tattoo.
I shifted slightly, and the weight across my waist tightened.
Elijah’s arm.
His left arm—the good one—was draped over me, heavy and possessive, pinning me to the mattress. His face was buried in the crook of my neck, his breath warm and rhythmic against my skin.
I turned my head slowly, careful not to wake him.
In sleep, the "Iceman" was gone. The terrifying lines of tension that usually bracketed his mouth were smoothed out.
His lashes were long, casting shadows on his high cheekbones.
He looked younger. He looked like the boy who had lost his mother too soon, not the man who broke wrists and bought people.
I let my eyes drift down his body. The sheet was tangled around his waist, leaving his torso bare.
In the daylight, the tattoos were even more breathtaking. The storm on his back wrapped around his ribs—dark waves crashing against jagged rocks. I reached out, my fingers hovering over the ink. I traced the line of a ship’s mast inked just above his hip bone. It was listing, fighting the current.
He’s drowning, I thought, a sudden lump forming in my throat. He paints the drowning on his skin so he doesn't have to feel it on the inside.
Last night hadn't been part of the contract. It hadn't been a transaction. It had been a collision. We had torn at each other with a desperation that scared me. I had given him everything—my body, my first time, my pride.
And he had taken it. Not with greed, but with a starving kind of gratitude.
But now, in the cold light of morning, the fear crept in.
What happened next? Did we go back to the living room and pretend to be roommates? Did he hand me a check? Did he look at me with regret?
Surrender.
That was the word that kept echoing in my head. I had surrendered. And in war, when you surrender, you are at the mercy of the conqueror.
I tried to slide out from under his arm. I needed space. I needed a toothbrush. I needed to find my clothes, which were scattered across the floor like casualties of battle.
"Don't."
The voice was a low rumble, vibrating against my spine.
I froze.
Elijah didn't open his eyes. He just tightened his grip, pulling me back until my back was flush against his chest. He hooked his leg over mine, tangling our limbs together.
"I... I have to pee," I whispered, the lie sounding thin even to my own ears.
"You’re running," he corrected, his voice thick with sleep. "You’re overthinking. I can hear the gears turning in your head, Angela. It’s loud."
He buried his face in my hair, inhaling deeply.
"Stay."
It wasn't a command. It was a plea.
I relaxed against him, the fight draining out of me. "I’m not running. I’m just... processing."
"Process here."
He opened his eyes. I felt him shift, propping himself up on his elbow to look down at me. His blue eyes were heavy-lidded, dark with a mix of exhaustion and lingering heat. He looked at me—really looked at me—scanning my face for regret.
"Are you okay?" he asked, his hand coming up to brush a stray curl off my forehead. His touch was gentle, reverent.
"I’m sore," I admitted, flushing.
A slow, wicked smirk spread across his lips. "Good."
"You’re a brute," I murmured, turning onto my side to face him.
"I warned you," he said. He traced the line of my jaw with his thumb. "I told you I wouldn't be gentle. You begged for it."
"I didn't beg."
"You screamed," he whispered, leaning in closer. "You screamed my name like it was the only word you knew. It was the most beautiful sound I’ve ever heard."
The memory hit me—the feeling of him deep inside me, the way I had unraveled completely. My face burned hotter.
"Elijah..."
"No," he interrupted softly. "Don't hide from it. Look at me."
I met his gaze.
"Last night wasn't a mistake," he said firmly. "And it wasn't a one-time thing. You understand that, right? You opened the door. You don't get to close it again."
"I don't want to close it," I whispered. "But I don't know what it means. Are we... are we dating? Real dating? Or is this still the contract?"
Elijah was silent for a moment. He looked at his injured hand, which was resting on the pillow between us, swollen and ugly. Then he looked back at me.
"The contract was about control," he said. "It was about keeping my world orderly. But this..." He ran his hand down my arm, over my hip, resting on my thigh. "This is chaotic. And for the first time in my life, I don't want to fix the chaos. I want to live in it."
He moved suddenly, throwing the duvet off us.
The cool air hit my naked skin. I instinctively curled in on myself, trying to cover my breasts with my arm. The shame of the morning after—the harsh reality of nudity without the haze of lust—was instinctive.
"Stop," he ordered.
He sat up and grabbed my wrists, pulling my arms away from my body.
"Don't cover yourself," he said, his eyes darkening as they swept over me. "I’ve memorized every inch of you. There’s nothing to hide."
"It’s bright in here," I protested weakly.
"Good. I want to see."
He stood up. He was gloriously, unapologetically naked. He stood by the bed like a statue carved from marble and violence, unbothered by his own nudity. He reached down and pulled me up.
"Come here."
He led me across the room. I stumbled slightly, my legs feeling like jelly, but he steadied me. He walked us to the massive, ornate floor mirror that leaned against the far wall.
He positioned me in front of it, my back to his chest.
"Look," he commanded.
I looked.
The reflection was jarring. Elijah towered over me, his broad shoulders and dark tattoos contrasting with my pale, soft skin.
He looked like a warrior who had captured a princess.
My hair was a wild halo of curls. My lips were bitten red.
There were faint red marks on my hips where his fingers had dug in.
But it wasn't the dishevelment that shocked me. It was the look in my eyes.
I looked... owned.
Elijah wrapped his arms around me, his hands splaying across my stomach. He rested his chin on the top of my head, his eyes locking with mine in the glass.
"Tell me what you see," he murmured.
"I see... I see a mess," I whispered.
"I see perfection," he countered. He moved one hand up to cup my breast, his thumb brushing the nipple. I gasped as it hardened instantly under his touch. "I see a woman who thinks she’s weak because she feels things deeply, but who is actually strong enough to handle me."
He pressed his hips against my backside. I felt him hardening against me. The friction of his skin against mine sent a jolt of electricity straight to my core.
"You’re a ballerina," he said, his voice dropping to that rough, instructional tone that made my knees weak. "You spend your life in front of mirrors. Correcting. Criticizing. Fixing."
He bit the sensitive spot where my neck met my shoulder.
"Today, you don't correct," he growled. "Today, you just feel. You watch yourself feel."
"Elijah," I breathed, leaning back against him. "Your hand... you’re hurt."
"My left hand works fine," he said. "And my cock works perfectly."
He moved his hands down my body, tracing the curve of my waist, the flare of my hips. He dropped to his knees behind me.
I watched in the mirror, wide-eyed, as he knelt. The submission of the posture was a lie; he was in complete control.
He placed his hands on my thighs, pushing my legs wider apart.
"Spread for me," he ordered.
I obeyed. I widened my stance.
He leaned forward and pressed a kiss to the small of my back. Then lower. To the curve of my ass.
Then, he reached around and slid his hand between my legs.
I watched myself in the mirror as his fingers found me. I watched my own head fall back, my eyes fluttering shut.
"Open your eyes," he commanded. "Watch."
I forced my eyes open. I saw his dark head behind me. I saw his hand working. I saw the way my hips bucked involuntarily.
"You’re so wet," he praised, his voice vibrating against my glutes. "Good girl. You’re always ready for me."
Good girl.
The praise hit me like a drug. It bypassed my brain and went straight to my nervous system. I whimpered.
"That’s it," he murmured. "Take it."
He stood up slowly, his hand never leaving me. He turned me around to face him. He lifted me effortlessly, sitting me on the edge of a low velvet bench in front of the mirror.
He stepped between my legs.
"Last night was fast," he said, brushing my hair back from my face. "Last night was survival. This morning... this morning is worship."
He kissed me. It was slow, deep, and devastating. His tongue swept my mouth, tasting me, claiming me. He tasted like morning breath and desire, and I didn't care. I wanted to consume him.
He pulled back. He looked down at his injured hand—the right one. He couldn't put weight on it. He couldn't use it to hold me.
"I need you to do the work," he said.
"Tell me what to do," I whispered.
"Lie back."
I leaned back on the bench, my legs draping over the sides.
"Lift your hips."
I lifted.
"Guide me in."
My breath hitched. I reached down. My hand brushed the velvet head of his erection. He was trembling slightly—the restraint costing him.