Page 60 of Eyes in the Shadows

“You what?!” she shrieks.

I chuckle. I knew that would be her reaction, but I’m still amused by it. “Darlin’, I followed you. I stalked you for weeks. Why is that the line?”

“Because I… you…” I see her mind race, trying to remember every embarrassing thing she’s ever done. Then, realization hits. She suddenly remembers what might be the worst—worse than any of the farting or off-key singing in the shower.

I let the smile spread, slow and intentional, as I sit up and turn around to cage her with my body, one hand planted on the mattress on either side of her. “That’s right, Eleanor, I heard my name on those lips that first night, when you fingered that pretty pussy, thinking about me. You didn’t know it, but that was the night you became mine.”

She swallows, eyes round and slightly accusatory. “So, you knew all along—”

“I told you I didn’t need you to tell me you wanted me. I just needed you to admit it. And admit that you wanted to act on it.”

“I just…” she trails off, blushing harder. “I didn’t realize it was… I mean, I guess I just assumed it wasn’t really about me, so much as it was just a quirk of yours. I know some people fall really hard andfast, so I figured—”

I cut her off by gripping her chin and holding her still for a kiss. “Getting dangerously close to calling yourself unremarkable, there, darlin’.”

Her eyes flash with heat, blood rushes to my dick, and our conversation is over.

22

Eleanor

Are we... vibing?

I’ve never been with someone who wanted so much from me. And it was a release like I’ve never known, just to give in and let him take it.

Sex has always seemed so transactional. Your pleasure, my pleasure, getting ourselves off and having fun together doing it. Even with guys who stuck around long enough to earn the illustrious title of Boyfriend, sex was, at most, an additional way to connect that felt good.

Sex with Mac is absolutely nothing like that. He acts like everything about me is his. My pleasure is his—his to give, his to take. Hell, with the way he’s so attentive, thoughtful and obsessed, so is my heart. I’m not sure I’m even protecting it from him anymore.

Because in truth, that’s why I kept my distance. I didn’t want to admit to myself that letting him in even a little would blow me wide open. And he’s so… much. So much power, and vitality, and intelligence, and physical perfection…

Yeah, I’m doomed. All I can do is hope he meant what he said about never letting me go, or at least that he means to keep me for a little while. Even beyond the next week, which is really my only guaranteed time.

He keeps me up so late that I spend most of the next day snoozing, missing him, and sneaking down to the kitchen in the elevator for snacks. In the late afternoon, I decide to give the well-equipped gym in the basement a try, in spite of the soreness in my legs and core.

It’s such a large space, and it feels cavernous as the motion-sensor lights come on. Being alone with so much big equipment is almost intimidating, but it’s better than accidentally making eye contact with Dimitri on the inner-thigh machine.

My workout is eerily quiet, since I can’t figure out how to work the complicated music system built into the wall, but it leaves me feeling sweaty and accomplished. Afterwards, I shower, spend some time carving out a spot in Mac’s closet for my stuff—feeling just a little silly doing it, knowing my days are numbered—and make my way back downstairs to start dinner.

Intentionally, I didn’t make too much food when I was meal prepping. I know people get weird about leftovers, and, quite honestly, I wanted to give myself something to do while Mac was gone. But I did make enough to get Mac and Wesley through a couple of days, knowing that I could easily make something ad hoc for myself.

So, when I open the fridge to assess where we stand, I’m completely stunned. All those meals I prepared yesterday are gone. Either I severely misunderstood how much food these guys eat, or… I didn’t calculate correctly for the number of people actually eating it. I have a reasonable idea of how much of that grocery order should be left, and a quick check of the remaining chicken and ground beef tells me that my suspicions were right. There’s no way Dimitri is cooking for himself.

As if the thought summons the man…

“You,” I hear, and whirl with a hand pressed to my chest in fear.

The fear doesn’t abate as I see Dimitri’s angry face. “Me?”

“You tell me these knivessuck,” he spits, emphasizing the American slang that sounds so strange in his accent. He places a canvas bundle on the counter with a distasteful look my way. “I come, take them to sharpen, only to find you know nothing. These knives are as sharp as you could want. Maybe they are too sharp? Hmm? You cut yourself? This is not my problem.”

I’d know that beat-up canvas case anywhere, even if I hadn’t just pulled it from my bags the night before. From here, I can even see my initials at the top, written in sharpie. I’d assumed Mac had taken them to the kitchen for me. Then, when I couldn’t find them down here, I assumed I’d simply missed them in our room somewhere.

“No, those are my knives,” I say. “Mac had them brought here from my apartment.”

He looks down, but his scowl stays firmly affixed, like he doesn’t believe me or understand. So, I go to the knife drawer in the island and pull out one of the old, ceramic-coated ones for him. “These are the knives that were here.”

He takes it, and recognition dawns on his face. Setting it down, he opens up the canvas case, and picks up my 7” chef’s knife—the one Mac stabbed my table with. “These are very nice,” he says with some ill-disguised surprise. “Well-balanced.”

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