Page 22 of Make You Mine

Nor is it fair, but I have to get ahold of myself.

Even thinking about getting close to the detective—or any man—is a mistake and isn’t healthy in my state of mind. I’m not okay. Recognize it.

But more so, because Jason won’t let me go.

He told me as much…

You’ll pay for this, and only after I’ve lubed my cock with your blood will I forgive you.

A harsh shudder runs down my spine, and I grit my teeth. Breathe in and out as conflicting thoughts wage a war inside my head. I’m safe for now. I’m angry at myself, the latter of which for being stupid enough to ignore his advances.

Why didn’t I acknowledge how creeped out he made me feel instead of pushing it aside, pretending that Jason was just another pushy male? The kind that thinks persistence will get them the attention of a woman who doesn’t see him in the same light?

No one owes it to anyone to appease their ego.

No matter the gender. A person’s sexuality. Or religious belief.

No means fucking no. Period.

I still failed, though, because I didn’t speak up. What if he knows I’m here and…

“You’re safe. No one can get in,” I whisper on shaky legs, my chest rapidly rising with every harsh intake of air. Standing is becoming too difficult, and I slide down to the floor. Turning with my back to the veranda, I lower my body with my knees bent up and take in a few deep gulps of air, limbs shaking.

The world around me is a muddle of sounds.

I’m scared, and time seems to move around me while I’m stuck inside my head. And yet, when a pair of arms pick me up and hold me close, everything comes back to me.

The noises. His sandalwood masculine scent. A warmth that settles deep into my bones and calms my panic.

“Elijah.” It leaves me on a breathless whimper, and his arms tighten around me. My head is nestled against his chest, and I’m matching my breathing to the sound of his heart beneath my ear. It helps me focus.

“I have you, Ava. Just breathe for me.” The chill of his A/C hits my skin, and I shiver, burrowing deeper. Eli walks a few steps further into his living room and stops, turning with me in his hold, and sits. I’m astride his lap, clutching his shirt while his hand, the skin a bit rough, runs up and down my back in slow motion. I should feel fear, especially after Jason, but I don’t. There’s no discomfort, either. Instead, the warmth coming from his body seeps into mine. “That’s it. Slow and deep…match mine.”

Up and down, the touch is gentle as his chest expands, and I mimic the move. For a while, we just sit there, in the quiet of the late afternoon, breathing. He doesn’t rush me, and I don’t want to move from his embrace.

Rather, I soak up his attention. Enjoy what I can’t allow myself to want.

“Better?” he asks a few minutes later. His lips are on the crown of my head, just lightly pressing there.

“Yeah.” My voice is a bit hoarse, and my throat is dry. I’m thirsty, and he picks up on this.

Elijah’s quick to pick me up and set me down on the couch beside his now empty spot. “Be right back,” he calls out over his shoulder, entering another room that connects to this one.

Immediately, I miss his warmth. How good he felt against me. How safe.

Christ, I need help. Something can’t be right if…

I hear a cabinet door and then the fridge open right before a crash. The loud sound makes me jump in my seat, and I find myself rushing toward him on still-weak legs. I’m feeling the aftereffects of my anxiety, a bit lethargic now, but I can’t stop myself. “You okay in there?”

“Yes.” There’s a muffled curse, and another item falls. Glass this time, and it shatters. “Just peachy.” He sounds grumpy, and maybe even a little bit cute, as he tries to hide whatever’s happening. However, nothing could prepare me for what I encountered upon entering his kitchen.

It’s comical, to say the least.

“How the hell?” A giggle slips through my lips, and his head snaps in my direction. The expression on his face is one of annoyance, but it quickly softens as I take in the hot mess he’s created. “Again, Eli. How?”

A large Tupperware container full of spaghetti and meatballs is spread about everywhere, splashed on the walls, cabinet doors, and the floor. On top of that, there’s broken glass and what I think is lemonade from a pitcher.

I take another step inside the kitchen, but he holds a hand up, stopping me. “Watch your feet,” he grunts, his tone a bitharsh a second before glass crunches beneath my sandals. Bits spread out further, one or two jumping on my toe. Eli sees this and lets out another lowfuckbefore marching over and picking me up.

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