Total pages in book: 167
Estimated words: 157162 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 786(@200wpm)___ 629(@250wpm)___ 524(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 157162 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 786(@200wpm)___ 629(@250wpm)___ 524(@300wpm)
I watched Elliot push off the bar and turn to make my drink. He was wearing a Shaw Shack tee, the logo on the back faded. His shoulders were broad, not as wide as his brother’s but powerful nonetheless. His curly hair was wild underneath the backward cap he wore with the same Shaw Shack logo.
Though I didn’t want to bring Jasper into my mind, into that space, anywhere near the proximity in my mind where Elliot was, I couldn’t help but think of comparisons. I’d never seen Jasper in anything but a suit in his adult life … if he wasn’t naked. Never in anything casual. Relaxed. I’d found comfort in that because I have never been able to relax; he was someone who understood me. At least that’s what I’d told myself.
Except I had recently begun to understand that Jasper was a cage, an electrified one. If I relaxed even a little, let myself test the sides, I’d get a shock, pain. He needed me to stay cold, cruel, predictable. Controllable. That’s why he’d murdered Naomi. My proverbial electric shock.
I mused over all of this as Elliot made my drink and placed it in front of me.
I tore my gaze from him to the glass. Which wasn’t glass at all. “This is plastic.” I tapped the side of the faux martini glass with my nail, screwing up my nose.
“That it is.” Amusement burst from his tone.
I met his gunmetal eyes. “I do not drink out of plastic cups. I’m not a preschooler.”
The corner of his lips turned up. “It’s the nature of the beast at a beach bar.”
“I don’t care if it’s written in stone on a tablet on the wall.” I pushed the plastic cup toward him with a single finger. “Find me a glass for my drink, or I won’t be paying for it, and I most certainly will be leaving.”
My tone told him I was serious. It was a tone I’d never heard a quarrel from, only submission. I didn’t consider myself a Domme in any sense of the word, but despite his muscles—with his curls, his easy smile and casual demeanor —Elliot did not seem like he would be the first man to stand up to me.
“I’ll make a note to have glasses here the next time you come in.” He pushed the plastic cup in my direction. “For now, you’ll have to slum it. Or don’t drink it. Even if you do, I ain’t charging you. And I don’t think you’re going to be leaving either.” His tone, his arched brow and teasing eyes were all cocky, confident.
He had leaned his elbows on the bar top, reaching over to be closer to me. His simple scent made my fingers curl. Pheromones. That’s all it was. But he had some mighty nice ones. Or maybe it was because he was novel; he didn’t smell like the expensive, custom-made colognes I was used to on the men I came into close vicinity with.
And unlike the men I’d been in close proximity to, he didn’t submit.
No, Elliot Shaw surprised me very much by refusing to back down.
It was extraordinarily sexy.
I pursed my lips, not betraying the wetness between my legs as he exposed the controlling, domineering side of him that complimented his easygoing nature in a way that should’ve been impossible.
“What makes you think that I won’t walk out right now?” I used a tone that had made men’s balls shrink and then fold back into themselves.
Elliot only pressed himself farther across the bar, eyes locked onto mine. “Because, Calliope Derrick, you like being in control. You like glasses for your martinis. And despite your best efforts, you like me. More than you like glasses for your martinis. And you like it when I control you. In certain situations.” There was still that ease to his words, but they had a rasp to them. An undercurrent. Of carnality. Darker than I would’ve expected from my golden retriever fisherman.
I licked my lips, without initially being entirely aware that I was doing it. Me. Whose every gesture was calculated, purposeful. I wasn’t above using my wiles to get what I wanted in a situation—men had been taking things from us for years. It was more than healthy for me to take things from them by using the thing they thought they could own: our sexuality.
But I wasn’t trying to control Elliot with my sexuality, didn’t want to steer him with feigned interest in him.
I was trying to do the opposite. I didn’t want him to know I was interested in him, more interested than I had any right to be.
Not just because the interest I had in the man went beyond being purely sexual—which was warning bell number one. But because he was a good person. When he smiled, it reached his eyes. He laughed, and it came from his belly. There was no emptiness, no bone-chilling abyss in his gaze. I didn’t see my sins when I looked at him, didn’t feel like a dirtbag.