Page 32 of Hazel and Elijah Find Out: First They F*cked Around

That was how I found myself standing outside the dressing room of a store that was much more expensive than I usually shopped at. On the other side of the door, Elijah was changing into clothes I’d picked out, which were a bit less laid-back than what he normally wore. I had picked a camel-colored sweater that was very soft and charcoal gray slacks. He’d grabbed a belt on his way into the room.

I preoccupied myself by organizing my calendar for the following week. I’d have to be pretty productive tomorrow to make up for the time I took off today. Even though I was heading back to town with Millie soon, I still had some tasks to complete before my date with Elijah tonight.

I typed my to-do list into my phone until the latch on the doorclickedand it swung open.

He stood there in the center of the dressing room with his chestnut waves tousled, scraping one hand over his short beard while the other was tucked into the pants pocket. I took him in from head to socked-feet, and then I did it again—and maybe one more time for good measure.

Holding his arms out to either side, he asked, “What do you think?”

I pinched my lips together and nodded. “It looks really good on you.”

“Thank you. Is this what you wanted?”

Scanning over the broad set of his shoulders and the loose fit of the sweater at his waist, I hummed, “Mm-hmm.”

Elijah turned his back to me, from my place in the hallway my focus instantly dropped to his firm, round ass. After a beat or two, I enjoyed the thin fabric of the sweater stretching across his shoulder blades.

He looked so good. The anticipation for tonight grew into something needy low in my stomach and an ache formed between my legs. The memory of him, naked and sweating, roared to the forefront of my mind. There were too many layers between us in this public space, though I would do unlawful things if he suggested them.

“What are you thinking about, Hazel?” His tone had dropped, the words scraping his throat.

“Huh?” I met his eye in the dressing room mirror where he watched me. My eyes were wide, as if I’d been caught doing something wrong.

“You’re blushing.”

The warmth that had already filled my cheeks spread to my neck and chest.

“That look on your face is going to get us arrested,” he rumbled.

I couldn’t believe I could speak, even if my voice was weak and airy. “I believe in your self-control.”

“But not yours?”

“I don’t have much faith in mine right now.”

In slow movements, he turned and gripped the doorframe over our heads in one hand. He tilted his head down, capturing my gaze in his. I was trapped in his snare, without any desire to struggle free from it. He was so close, but we didn’t touch. He smelled like cinnamon, and my mouth watered, wanting to taste him.

He looked to either side of the hallway, ensuring that we were the only two people nearby.

We aren’t really…?

Because if he touched me, kissed me, pulled me into the dressing room and closed the door, I wasn’t sure I would stop us. The way my heart was pounding in my ears drowned out all my rational thoughts.

He stared at my mouth, his tongue moistening his lips, and I swayed toward him. His grip tightened on the doorframe and his bicep flexed. His hand skimmed the thin skin of my throat, and his thumb drew a line across my lower lip.

I was a pile of desperate skin and bones. I wanted his mouth on me so badly, every nerve in my body thrummed for more of his touch.

Somehow, I didn’t groan when he removed his hand and straightened, putting distance between us. There was a dark, dangerous tint to his eyes I’d never seen before. The rattle of his belt buckle startled my gaze to his waistband. I darted a look over my shoulder, but there was still no one there.

Only us.

“Just look,” he growled.

He sounded as desperate as I felt. As if there was a part of him clawing to be released, and it belonged with the part of me I could hardly hold back. The part of me that itched to run my hands over his body, that wanted to climb him like a goddamn tree.

He whipped the strap out of the loops with the sharp sound of leather on fabric, then let it fall to the floor. My jaw slackened as he stroked the heel of his palm along his hardened length, straining along the front of his pants. Then he took hold of the hem of his sweater and pulled it over his head. His curls fell into his eyes, and he shook them back. The white undershirt he wore clung to his rounded pecs and long waist.

I had to cross my arms not to touch him.

---