Page 40 of The Love Clause

"Josie." Elliot's voice cuts through my manufactured mirth like a blade. "A word?"

I look up with practiced innocence. "Elliot! Blake was just telling me about the gallery scene in Charleston. Did you know they have a special showcase for mixed-media artists every fall?"

"Fascinating," Elliot says, the word clipped and cold. "But we have the contract signing in thirty minutes. Harrison requested we meet him in the study beforehand to review the final terms."

It's a lie. I know it's a lie because Harrison specifically said the signing would be in the lodge's library at eleven, with no pre-meeting mentioned. But I play along, curious to see where this is heading.

"Of course," I say, turning to Blake with an apologetic smile. "Duty calls. But I'll definitely be in touch about those submission guidelines."

"Please do." Blake stands as I do, his eyes darting between Elliot and me with barely concealed amusement. "It was a pleasure getting to know you this weekend, Josie. You too, Elliot."

Elliot doesn't bother responding, his hand finding the small of my back as soon as I stand—not the gentle guidance of earlier in the weekend, but a firm, possessive pressure that steers me away from Blake and toward the hallway.

"Where are we really going?" I ask once we're out of earshot of the other guests. "Because I know for a fact there's no pre-meeting with Harrison."

Elliot doesn't answer. His jaw is working, the muscle there twitching with barely contained tension. He guides me down a side hallway I haven't explored before, away from the public areas of the lodge.

"Elliot, seriously, what are you?—"

Before I can finish the question, he opens a door I hadn't even noticed and pulls me inside, closing it firmly behind us. We're in what appears to be a supply closet—a surprisingly spacious one, filled with extra linens and housekeeping supplies, but a closet nonetheless.

"What the hell?" I demand, blinking in the dim light. The only illumination comes from a small window near the ceiling and the thin line beneath the door.

"What do you think you're doing?" Elliot asks, his voice low and controlled despite the tension radiating from him.

"Currently? Standing in a closet with a man who's apparently lost his mind." I cross my arms, feigning confusion. "Before that? Having a perfectly pleasant conversation with Blake about art galleries. Why?"

"You're engaged to me." Each word is precise, measured. "Yet you're flirting with another man in full view of everyone at this retreat."

"Am I engaged to you, though?" I take a step closer, challenging him. "Because this morning you made it pretty clear that nothing about this is real. That last night was a 'momentary lapse in judgment.' So why should it matter who I flirt with?"

"It matters because we have a contract," he growls, moving closer. "Because until we leave this lodge, you're supposed to be convincingly mine."

"Convincingly," I repeat, my anger rising to match his. "Well, I convinced Blake well enough last time to make you drag me away from him, didn't I? And look, here we are again. Same jealous reaction, same refusal to admit what's really bothering you."

His hands clench at his sides, and for a moment I think he might actually shout—something I've never seen him do, controlled as he always is. But when he moves, it's not to step away or to raise his voice. Instead, he closes the distance between us in one fluid motion, backing me against the shelves behind me, his body caging mine.

"You want to know what's bothering me?" he asks, his voice dangerously soft. "What's bothering me is watching you touch another man when you still smell like me. When I can still tasteyou on my tongue. When every time I close my eyes, I see you coming apart beneath me."

The crude honesty of his words sends a shock of heat through me. This isn't the carefully composed lawyer who measures each word for maximum effect. This is raw, unfiltered Elliot, and it's intoxicating.

"Then do something about it," I challenge, my voice barely above a whisper. "Stop hiding behind contracts and arrangements and just admit what you want."

For one suspended moment, he simply stares at me, his eyes nearly black in the dim light of the closet. Then his control snaps like a taut wire.

His mouth crashes into mine with none of the gentleness of last night. This is possession, pure and simple, his hands gripping my waist hard enough to leave marks as he presses me back against the shelves. I respond with equal fervor, fingers tangling in his perfect hair, messing it up deliberately, claiming him just as he's claiming me.

The kiss is all teeth and tongue, anger and desire tangled together until I can't tell where one ends and the other begins. He lifts me easily, hands gripping my thighs as he presses between them, the hard length of him evident even through our clothing. My legs wrap around his waist instinctively, pulling him closer, needing more friction, more pressure, more everything.

When we finally break apart, we're both breathing hard, my lipstick smeared across his mouth, his hair standing in directions that would mortify him if he could see himself. I probably look equally disheveled, my blouse partially unbuttoned though I don't remember when that happened.

"This is insane," he mutters, but he doesn't move away. Instead, his lips find my neck, trailing hot, open-mouthed kissesdown to the sensitive juncture of my shoulder. "You drive me insane."

"Good," I gasp as he nips at a particularly sensitive spot. "Welcome to how I've felt since meeting you."

His hands tighten on my thighs, adjusting our position so he's supporting my weight more fully, pressing me back against the shelves. Something falls with a soft thud—a stack of washcloths, maybe—but neither of us pauses to check.

"You're mine while we're here," he growls against my skin, the declaration sending a shiver down my spine. "Not his. Not anyone else's."

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