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“They probably didn’t have enough time to figure you out before you were onto the next one.” My smug tone matches his, but his rebuttal is just as quick.
“You don’t have me figured out. You hardly have yourself figured out.”
“Fuck you,” I hiss, standing. The chair screeches behind me as he sits there with his wine glass in his hand.
I watch him as he sets it down, taking his time, and I wonder what I’ll face. His patience? His humor? His fury?
“Hard words from a woman who rarely swears,” he says, sitting back to stare at me evenly.
Patience.I’d spit on it if I could.
“You bring out the worst in me,” I state.
“I bring out theyouin you.”
He stands now and we both stare at each other; my chest rising and falling quicker and with more gusto than his.
Barely a moment passes before we’re reaching for each other, our lips reacquainting themselves with a furious passion. He yanks me closer, and I grunt as my knee hits the table. We’re pushing things off the surface of the table with hands and knees, and when I’m flush against him, I melt into him.
Some men kiss you and you don’t feel anything. It’s lips to lips; a part of an act, leading up to what it is they’re really there for.
Ezra kisses me like he’s seducing my mouth. As if he won’t let any part of my body be utterly entranced by him.
Before I know it, my back is against the tabletop, and his hands are on my thighs, pushing them apart.
There is a need in my blood and a lust ringing in my ears as I feel his thumb rub against the lace of my panties before slipping his finger underneath the fabric.
“Tell me what you want,” he mumbles against my lips, and I’m taken back to the first time.
To the reckless devouring of each other, damnation on the horizon. Unbeknownst to me.
I hadn’t been chasing an orgasm; I’d been preyed upon by what could very well be my ruin.
“No,” I say, placing my hands on his chest and pushing the solid wall of it away from mine. “No. I don’t want any of this.”
“Eloise,” he starts but I shake my head.
“I said no.”
He sits up and I can’t look at him as I bring my legs together again.
I slide off the table, adjusting the skirt of my dress and pushing my hair from my face. My eyes are on the floor, on the scattered items now littering it. On the wine splattered on the wood.
“Where do I sign?” I ask, ready to get this over with.
“Come again?” He’s too busy picking up the mess we made in our disastrous desire to witness my tailspin into panic.
“Where do I sign so I can go home?” The question rushes out of my mouth, getting higher in octave despite my yearning to seem in control.
“You don’t have to?—”
“Please. There are so many things in my life that I regret,” I start, my words heavy. Rain starts to hit the window, and I stare at the inky skyline outside. “I don’t want to add something else to the list.”
I have no hard words left in my arsenal. I can’t give him little quips that are meant to sting, just to protect myself.
And if the tears come again, I’ll never sign the contract.
Even if it means protecting the bookstore.
