Page 36 of The Love Clause

"You're staring right now," I point out, a breathless laugh escaping me.

"With good reason." His thumb brushes over my nipple, turning my laugh into a gasp. "You're beautiful."

The simple declaration, delivered with such unvarnished sincerity, hits me harder than any elaborate compliment. This isn't the smooth-talking lawyer or the controlled professional. This is just Elliot, looking at me like I'm something precious.

Our remaining clothes disappear in a frantic tangle of limbs and whispered curses when his pants get caught on his ankle. It should be awkward—we're essentially strangers playing at being lovers who are now actually becoming lovers—but somehow it's not. Each stumble and laugh only makes this more real, more us.

"Do you have protection?" he asks, ever the practical one even with his body hovering over mine.

"In my bag," I answer, then flush at his raised eyebrow. "Not because I planned this! I just…always keep some. Just in case."

"Just in case you found yourself in bed with your fake fiancé?" His smile is almost playful, a side of him I've rarely glimpsed.

"Just in case a hot, uptight lawyer hired me to pretend to be engaged to him and then couldn't keep his hands to himself," I counter, enjoying his soft laugh as he retrieves what we need.

When he returns to bed, something has shifted. The frantic edge remains, but there's a tenderness to his movements now, a deliberate care as he settles between my thighs. His fingers find me first, exploring with the same meticulous attention he brings to everything, learning what makes me squirm and gasp.

"Tell me what you like," he murmurs, watching my face as he touches me.

"That," I breathe as his fingers curl just right. "Exactly that."

He's a quick study, building me up with a focus that makes me wonder if he approached this like he approaches everythingelse—with thorough research and a determination to excel. The thought makes me giggle, which quickly transforms into a moan as his mouth replaces his fingers.

"Oh god," I manage, hands fisting in his hair. "Elliot..."

If I'd ever imagined Elliot Carrington would be good at this—and okay, maybe I had, once or twice—the reality exceeds every fantasy. He doesn't just pay attention; he's obsessive about it, adjusting to every response, every breath, every whispered plea. When I come apart against his mouth, it's with a shuddering intensity that leaves me breathless and boneless.

"Earth-shattering enough?" he asks as he moves back up my body, and I can hear the smirk in his voice.

"Shut up," I mutter, pulling him down for a kiss that tastes like me and him and something new we're creating together. "And also, yes."

The smirk transforms into something more vulnerable as I guide him where I need him most. He pauses, supporting his weight on his forearms, looking down at me with a question in his eyes.

"Please," I whisper, wrapping my legs around his waist. "I want this. I want you."

The moment he pushes inside me, I understand what I meant at dinner. This is different. Not just physically—though god, that too—but emotionally. This isn't just sex. This is connection, raw and unfiltered in a way I've never experienced.

We move together like we've done this a thousand times, finding a rhythm that builds and crests and rebuilds, higher each time. Elliot whispers my name against my neck like a prayer, all his usual composure stripped away, leaving just the man beneath all those layers of control.

"Look at me," he commands as I feel myself approaching the edge again. "I want to see you."

I open eyes I hadn't realized I'd closed, finding his gaze locked on mine with an intensity that would be frightening if it didn't match exactly what I'm feeling. This is beyond physical pleasure. This is seeing and being seen, all defenses down, nothing between us but heat and truth.

When I come undone this time, it's with his name on my lips and his eyes holding mine, a shared freefall that he follows me into moments later, his control finally, beautifully shattering.

We collapse together, breathing hard, limbs entangled and sweat cooling on our skin. For several minutes, neither of us speaks. The only sound in the room is our gradually slowing breath and Barney's soft snores from the foot of the bed, apparently undisturbed by our activities.

Elliot moves first, disappearing briefly to the bathroom before returning to slide back into bed beside me. Unlike before, there's no attempt to maintain distance, to rebuild walls. Instead, he pulls me against him, my head finding the perfect spot on his shoulder, his arm curving around me like it belongs there.

"We crossed a line," he says finally, his voice quiet in the darkness.

I trace idle patterns on his chest, feeling his heart still racing beneath my fingertips. "Yeah. And I'm not sorry."

His arm tightens around me. "You should be. This complicates everything."

"Maybe uncomplicated is overrated," I suggest, tilting my head to look up at him. "Maybe complicated is exactly what we both need."

He doesn't answer, but he doesn't pull away either. Instead, his fingers begin drawing lazy circles on my bare shoulder, a touch so gentle it makes my throat tight with unexpected emotion.

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