Page 42 of He Falls First

Enough. Enough letting him yank me around by my heartstrings. This isn’t just the Hendrix Show, and I’m not some side character waiting for my lines. Nope, it’s time to flip the script.

Following Hendrix means traversing the maze of his mansion. I snort at the absurdity. Who needs this much space? It’s like trying to find Waldo in a Where’s Waldo book—if Waldo had a gazillion rooms to hide in and a penchant for emotional whiplash.

Finally, I spot his bedroom door ajar, light spilling out to summon me. I don’t bother knocking. Privacy’s become a moot point between us. He’s perched on the edge of his bed, looking like a king in exile, and I don’t waste a moment.

“Hendrix,” I call out. “Really? Storming out mid-strip tease? That’s not just cruel. It’s practically criminal.”

He doesn’t flinch. Those sharp green eyes of his meet mine, steady and unreadable. But I’m not here for riddles. I need clarity, crystal clear.

“Do you think this is fair?” I demand, crossing my arms.

“What’s fair?” Even the tone of his voice is frustratingly unreadable.

“This hot and cold routine—you reel me in, then push me away. What am I, a yo-yo for your amusement?” I know what’ll get through to him. “If some other guy was jerking me around like this, what would you say?”

The muscle in his jaw clenches so tightly, he might not even be able to open his mouth at this point.

So I answer my own question when he stays silent. “Damn right. You’d tell me to run for the hills. So why should I put up with this treatment from you?”

There’s a silence, loaded and thick. But this time, I don’t waver. This time, I wait him out.

“Elizabeth…” he starts. But then he’s got nothing.

“I get it, okay?” I say. “This whole arrangement is weird, and we’re both out of our depths. But that doesn’t give you the right to treat me like I’m disposable while we get through whatever this is.” My chest heaves. I’m both empowered and terrified by my own audacity.

“Whatever this is?” His voice is tight through his clenched jaw.

“Yeah.” I nod, throwing up my hands. “So, what’s it going to be? You can’t keep me hanging, expecting me to be your plaything when you want, and invisible when you’re not interested.”

“Is that what you think I’m trying to do with you?” Hendrix stands, towering over me now, but I refuse to shrink back.

“Sometimes? Yeah, I do.” My heart hammers, but I stand my ground. “And I deserve better. Even if this isn’t real, even if we’re just playing house until your contract seals… I deserve better, Hendrix.”

There’s a reflection in his eyes. Just the moonlight spilling through the window, or that plus regret. His gaze pierces through me.

“You’re right,” he says. “All the hot and cold—it’s not fair to you.”

“Okay, so?” My hands are on my hips, the last of my patience flickering out.

“What do you want from me, Elizabeth?” He doesn’t shout, but the frustration is clear, etching deeper lines into his already serious face.

I blink. “What do I- Hendrix, seriously? Drop the act about the contract. I want you. The real you, not the you written in legalese.”

He grinds his teeth. “This isn’t easy for me, either. We have rules, boundaries—”

“Stop hiding behind the contract, Hendrix!” My voice reaches the high-pitched territory, and usually I’d be cringing and trying to tamp it down by now. But right now, I don’t care what I sound like. “Forget the damn contract. I want you. Here, now, that’s all that matters.”

For a moment, Hendrix seems like a man caught in headlights. Then, with a growl of pure need, he surges forward. His hands find the hem of my blouse and in one swift motion, it’s torn open, buttons scattering like stars flung across the galaxy.

“Hey, that’s silk!” But even as I protest, heat pools within me, desire crackling along my skin.

“I’ll buy you a new one,” he growls, lips so close I can taste his words.

“Deal,” I manage to say before his lips crash down on mine again.

His chuckle is rich and unexpected as he continues his war on my clothing. In seconds, I’m stripped down—all the way down this time. And then he begins to undress. I reach for his shirt, fingers fumbling slightly because, holy guacamole, is this finally happening?

I pant, pulling at his shirt buttons. They give way, revealing the canvas of his chest. It’s a masterpiece of muscle and ink, glistening in the moonlight. His own shirt comes off with far less violence than mine, a smooth peel that reveals his whole divinely chiseled chest.

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