Chapter 14 Elio
ELIO
Her mouth on mine, gentle as it is, feels like a brand.
Every part of my body comes alive at once, my skin aching for her hands, my cock so hard that it hurts, the blood rushing to my suddenly stiff erection so fast that it makes me dizzy.
I’ve never gotten aroused so quickly in my life.
She’s not wearing perfume; all I can smell is the sweet scent of her skin, and the desire to spill her back onto the bed and devour her is so powerful that it takes every last shred of self-control that I have to keep from doing exactly that.
She brushes her lips against mine again, softly.
Her mouth is closed and so is mine, but I couldn’t be more turned on if we were devouring each other with sloppy, open-mouthed kisses.
I reach down to adjust myself, and Annie takes in a small, sharp breath that I can feel against my lips, her head tilting as she presses her mouth to mine more firmly.
Christ. I want to bury my hands in her hair, slide my tongue over the seam of her lips, kiss her until I hear her moan for me again. It takes everything in me to pull my hand away from my aching cock, my hands fisting in the duvet on either side of me to keep from touching her, too.
She seems to realize I’m just letting her kiss me, instead of pushing it further.
I expect her to pull away, to be hurt, to have to explain that I can’t let this go further when she’s here because she’s been assaulted, that I can’t take advantage of her fragility right now, that even that one kiss could complicate things so much more than they already are.
But she doesn’t pull away. Instead, she rests her forehead against mine, her breathing ragged, her hand still pressed against my chest. The space between us crackles with eleven years of suppressed desire, and every instinct I have is screaming at me to give in to it.
I can feel her hand trembling against my chest, see the quick rise and fall of her breathing.
I don’t think this is just about us, about her wanting me—even if it is, it’s more about erasing what happened to her, about replacing bad memories with good ones, about finding comfort in someone familiar when everything else feels foreign and dangerous.
And as much as I want her—Christ, as much as I've always wanted her—I can't be that for her. Not like this. Not when she's broken and desperate for the first safe harbor she can find.
"Annie," I say softly, gently wrapping my hand around hers and moving it away from my chest. "You're not thinking clearly."
Her eyes snap open, fiery with a sudden flash of anger, and for a moment, I see a glimpse of the girl who used to challenge me at every turn, who never backed down from an argument even when she was clearly outmatched.
"Don't," she says, her voice low and fierce. "Don't you dare tell me what I'm thinking or feeling."
"You've been through hell," I continue, even as every cell in my body screams for me to let this happen. "You're traumatized, you're scared, and you're looking for a way to make it stop hurting. But this—" I gesture between us, "—this isn't the answer."
"How do you know what the answer is?" she demands, pulling away suddenly and putting space between us. Tears are glimmering in her eyes, and I hate that I had something to do with putting them there. "How do you know what I need?"
"Because I know you." The words come out rougher than I intended, my own desire still throbbing through me like a second pulse. I want to get off the bed, to put myself somewhere that we can have this discussion with a clearer head, but I don’t dare stand up right now.
Annie will see exactly what she does to me if I do.
I suck in a heavy breath, trying to find some equilibrium. "I know that if we do this now, while you're like this, you'll regret it. And I can't live with being something you regret."
She stares at me for a long moment, and I can see the war playing out behind her eyes—hurt and anger and desire all battling for dominance. Finally, the fight goes out of her, and she slumps back against the headboard, suddenly looking very young and very lost.
She looks eighteen again, when I walked away from her that night. The memory hurts, a slice of pain through the already bruised muscle of my heart.
"You're right," she whispers, and the defeat in her voice makes my chest ache.
"I'm sorry. I just… I wanted to feel something else.
I wanted—" She breaks off, wrapping her arms around her knees like she's trying to hold herself together through sheer force of will, as she pulls them up to her chest again.
“Come on.” I stand up, a little more decent now. “Let’s go to the kitchen. I’ll make us something to eat. You probably haven’t eaten since dinner last night, have you?”
Annie shakes her head.
“Alright. I’ll make us some sandwiches, and we can talk. You can tell me about what happened when you’re ready, or we can talk about something else.”
“I—” Annie bites her lip. “I’m going to shower, actually. If that’s okay. And then we can eat?”
I nod. If anything, I could use a few minutes alone to get a grip on my own chaotic emotions. “Alright. I’ll meet you in the kitchen, then.”
I go out to the car and get my bag, then leave a change of clothes on the bed for Annie—another pair of sweatpants and a T-shirt until I can find a way to get her some of her things.
I change into a pair of black joggers and a T-shirt myself, and then go to the kitchen to start making food.
Anything to keep my hands and mind busy, so I’m not thinking about Annie in the shower, naked with soap and hot water dripping down her smooth skin.
Fuck.
Twenty minutes later, Annie walks into the kitchen, her copper hair damp and in a bun atop her head, wearing the clothes I laid out for her. The sight of her in my clothes, baggy as they are, sends another ripple of desire down my spine.
I have two sandwiches ready for us by the time she walks in—ham and swiss melts on sourdough with caramelized onions—and I put a handful of chips on each plate, setting hers down in front of her with a glass of water before joining her.
Annie picks up the sandwich, takes a bite, and lets out a moan that makes me harder than I ever thought I could be from a woman eating. “God, that’s good, Elio. I didn’t know you could cook.”
“Well, they weren’t paying me that much at first in Chicago.” I chuckle. “It was good to learn. Besides, I don’t know if it’s that good, I think you’re just hungry.”
“It’s delicious,” she insists, taking another large bite.
For a few long minutes, we just eat. I give her time, not wanting to push her. Finally, when she’s halfway through her sandwich, she sets it down and takes a long drink of water before putting her hands in her lap and looking at me.
“It was Desmond,” she says, and I nearly choke on the bite of food in my mouth.
I can feel my blood going hot as I swallow. “Fucking hell,” I swear, my jaw tightening. “I knew it was him. Fucking—goddamn liar! A fucking kitten—”
Annie looks at me as if I’ve lost my mind, and I quickly relay to her what happened in Ronan’s office today—how he’d called Desmond in to question him when he’d found out Desmond was the last one to see her, and Desmond’s alibi for why he was covered in scratches.
Her face goes pale as I speak, and anger flashes in her bright blue eyes.
“That bastard,” she whispers. “I can’t believe he used his fucking sister as a cover story. Poor Maeve—”
“It sounds like she’s had a tough time of it.” I try to clear the impatience from my voice—I’m sorry for whatever’s happening to Desmond’s sister, but that’s not who I care about right now.
What I care about is finding out what happened to Annie, and then putting Desmond Connelly in the fucking ground for it.
Annie nods, then swallows hard, looking down at her lap. “I made a lot of mistakes,” she says softly.
My instinct is to immediately tell her that none of this is her fault, but I force myself to keep quiet. I need to let her tell this at her own pace, without interrupting her. To say what she needs to say, and then I can respond.
“I should have told Ronan I was seeing Desmond.” She bites her lip, and I can see tears misting her eyes. “He knows now, doesn’t he?”
I nod. “He does. He wasn’t happy about it. But I think he was more angry with Desmond than with you.” I pause, considering how much to say. “He believed Desmond’s story,” I say finally, and Annie’s head snaps up.
“Good.”
For a moment, I think I’ve misheard her. “Good?”
“Desmond was our brother-in-law,” she says, looking past me to the window that looks out over the backyard behind the cabin. “Ronan was married to his sister, Siobhan.”
I nod. “I remember the name from the wedding announcement. And they talked about it briefly today in his office. It’s clear they’re… not friendly.”
“Siobhan and Ronan had a bad marriage. He didn’t really get along with Desmond, either.
I tried to be kind to Siobhan, a good sister-in-law to her, but she wasn’t kind to me.
Desmond and I didn’t see a lot of each other, but we saw each other at events sometimes, and there was some…
flirtation.” Annie chews on her lower lip.
“There was some chemistry there. But I didn’t want to get entangled in a marriage.
My father was surprisingly not pushing me to marry, and I was focused on my work for the family.
Desmond didn’t approach me, and I decided not to pursue it beyond the little bits of flirting we did at parties and such. ”
I try to ignore the way the thought of Desmond flirting with Annie makes me feel, or worse, her flirting back.