Page 31 of Love Finds Home

“Okay, asshole.”

“Can you seriously stop talking, ever?”

“Is it my voice that annoys you or what I say?” I ask, really wanting to know.

“Your voice,” he quietly admits.

“And on that note, why don’t you just drop me off?”

He lets out a sigh that holds years of annoyance before he stomps on the breaks in the middle of the road, throws the truck in park, and finally looks at me. His breathing is ragged, his eyes blazing with the heat in them.

“I don’t find your voice annoying, okay?” he asks.

“Then what is it?”

“It’s that every time you open your mouth, my dick goes hard.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah. Oh. My dick turns into a fucking steel pipe. And I’m trying to drive and not get us killed, which is hard to do when you have an appendage trying to hammer its way out of your fucking pants, alright?”

“Oh,” I whisper.

Finally, I see the smirk make an appearance. “So if you want me to drop you off and not come in, you have about two blocks to decide, and I’ll be cool with whatever that choice is. But for the love of everything holy, can you please not talk so I can get us there in one piece?”

I motion zipping my lips closed and tossing the key, waving my hand to the road in front of us, and turn my head to the window. No words from me until we’re inside. Where he will hopefully strip off all of my clothes before pounding me into next week.

Thankfully, it’s a short drive to the apartments. Once he’s parked in my driveway, the look he gives me tells me to stay put. He gets out, slamming his door closed and crossing in front of the truck to my side. He opens my door for me like a fucking gentleman. Who the hell is this guy?

“Thanks.”

We walk up the couple of stairs to the landing and I unlock the door and walk inside, flipping a light switch on. The door behind me stands open for him to come in or not. I don’t turn around, but I hear the door close and the lock turn. I’m standing in the middle of the living room with my arms at my sides, having dropped my bag on the floor by the couch. I refuse to turn and look at him. To make the first move. I’ve made my intentions clear. I want this. Part of me feels like I need this. But it has to be his decision.

I feel him at my back, his body heat radiating out from his chest. I hear his breathing and can imagine him standing with his hands in fists, not sure what to do.

“You know this changes nothing. I am not and will never be what you need.”

“I know,” I whisper back.

“There can’t be any emotions tied up in this for either of us. Do you understand that?”

“I understand,” I tell him, my voice still quiet, afraid to break the spell we’re both under.

I feel his breath on my neck as he leans in and asks with a raspy voice, “What do you want?”

“I don’t want to think. I just want to feel.”

“We can make that happen.”

He places a kiss on my neck and runs his hands up my arms, making me shiver and goosebumps pop up.

“You need to understand that I am the one in charge here.”

My breath catches at that declaration—that demand. I don’t know how he knows, but I love when a man takes charge. My reaction must mean something to him. I look up in time to see his lips tip up into a small smile.

“Elle, get naked. Now.”

My back still to him, I undo my jeans and slide them down my legs, kicking them off along with my shoes and socks. I lift my shirt and raise it over my head, letting it fall to the floor. I’m down to just my bra and panties. I hear his intake of breath. His fingers lightly pass over where I know the ink is on my back.

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