Page 47 of Bleed

“Are you incapable of loosening the fuck up?” I fire back with a laugh.

His jaw tightens. By the time he reaches the bottom step, his expression has gone carefully blank, though the flex of his hand against the railing betrays his irritation.

“Want some?” I ask, snatching up the wine bottle from the coffee table and holding it out. “Maybe it’ll help.”

Yeah, I’m fully aware I was warned off raiding the wine cellar. And trying to bait someone who could snap my neck in an instant is probably a dumb move, even for me. But a girl can only entertain herself for so long.

He advances, closing the distance between us in a few long strides, and I have to tip my head back to maintain eye contact when he comes to a stop in front of me. Annoying that even in five-inch heels, he still towers over me by almost a foot.

The glare he levels on me is clearly meant to be intimidating, but unfortunately for him, my wine buzz has sanded down the edges of my self-preservation instincts. I tilt my head and raise the bottle between us tauntingly.

He takes it from my hand, inspecting the label. “The ’90 Brunello,” he murmurs, a muscle in his jaw jumping.

“It’s really good,” I say with a giggle, draining the last sip from my glass.

His eyes follow the movement of my throat as I swallow. Then, to my complete shock, he lifts the bottle to his own lips. I stare as he takes a long pull– because seeing prim and proper Dr. Faulkner chugging wine straight from the bottle is something I never in a million years thought I’d witness.

And why the fuck does he look so hot doing it?

My gaze lingers on the way his mouth wraps around the rim, the movement of his throat as he swallows. When he finally lowers it, the bottle’s empty. He wipes his mouth with the back of his sleeve in a move so wildly out of character that for a second I wonder if I’ve hallucinated the whole thing.

“Let’s go,” he murmurs, setting the bottle down on the coffee table with a dull thud before turning to head for the elevator.

I watch after him for a beat, still trying to process whatever the hell that was. Then I abandon my glass and hurry after him, my heels clicking rapidly against the floor.

By the time I reach the elevator, the doors are already sliding open. Elliott steps in first, and I follow, the doors closing behind us.

Being trapped in such close quarters with him feels like standing too close to a live wire. The tension crackles beneath my skin as we descend, his hands tucked into the pockets of his slacks and his gaze fixed stubbornly on the elevator doors.

I don’t think I fully exhale until they slide open.

Elliott steps out into the parking garage, and I scramble to keep up, the tap of my heels against concrete echoing.

I glance around, expecting to find a black town car waiting for us. Instead, Elliott pulls a hand from his pocket and clicks a key fob, a pair of taillights flaring to life in the darkness.

I stop dead. “No fucking way.”

The matte black McLaren GT practically gleams beneath the garage lights as Elliott heads toward the driver’s side.

My jaw drops. “That’s yours?”

“Yes,” he replies curtly, reaching for the door handle. The driver’s door glides upward and he glances back at me, brow furrowing. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” I answer breathily, eyes roaming shamelessly over the car’s sleek lines. “Just having a cargasm.”

He stares at me for a moment like he’s trying to decide whether that’s a real thing. Then he tips his head toward the passenger side and says, “Get in.”

As if I needed convincing.

“Yes, sir,” I gush, hurrying over.

Something flashes across his face. His gaze sharpens, nostrils flaring slightly as he watches me practically skip around to the passenger side. I open the door and drop into the seat with a blissful sigh.

The leather is buttery soft beneath my bare thighs. I run my hands over the seat like a creep while Elliott settles behind the wheel and starts the engine. A low purr vibrates through the cabin, and a thrill shoots straight through me.

“Ugh,” I groan, letting my head fall back against the headrest. “I think I’m in love.”

He flicks me a glance as he shifts into reverse.