Page 46 of Eyes in the Shadows

“Oh, you like that idea, don’t you?”

Out of nowhere, his hand comes to rest on my ass and he squeezes. It breaks me out of whatever spell he’s casting and I flatten my hands on his chest so I can push. “Mac, please… stop.”

He moves away a little, drops his hand, and flashes his teeth. “Darlin’, I don’t care that you’re mad at me for this shit I’ve gotten you into. You should be. Just don’t try to use it as a shield. You can be mad at me, but don’t pretend you don’t want me. Because I know you do.”

Irritation prickles again and I can mentally take a step back. I’m a quivering mess, so hot I can barely speak, but he’s in total control—even breath, relaxed posture. And he’s fucking smirking.

“You… asshole!” I hiss. “Is that what all this hot and cold is about? You… touch me, make me think you want me, then you try to scare me away and keep your distance? You want to know you’re the one in control? You want me to admit how much I want you? Fine! I want you. Is that what your ego needed? You get off on that?”

He chuckles and leans forward. Suddenly, I feel the warmth of his hand wrapping around my throat. There’s no pressure, but it makes me go completely, rigidly still. Still enough that he can bring his face close enough so his lips just brush against mine when he speaks. “Oh, sweet Eleanor. I told you. I know you want me—I don’t need to hear it, though I’ll admit it’s nice. But you don’t know half of what you think you do.”

I swallow, and the weight of his palm makes me even more aware of how it feels. I can feel the heat of my own breath, bouncing back against my mouth from his nearness. “And what, exactly, don’t I know?”

“It’s not my ego you should be worried about; it’s my obsession.”

“W-what?” I croak.

His thumb starts running up and down the column of my neck and he pulls back to watch the movement with half-lidded, hypnotized eyes. “This hot and cold, as you called it, is me being a gentleman. It’s me respecting your ‘no’ while, respectfully, trying to get you to admit that ‘no’ is a ‘yes’.”

His eyes lift, catching mine. I want to drown in those brown depths.

“Give me an inch, darlin’, and I’ll have you underneath me so fast your head will spin. Just know, once you do, I’m never letting go.”

I gasp. My whole body is on fire at that declaration, dark as it is. I feel so completely consumed by this man in this moment, I don’t know which way is up or down. It’s like my brain shut off, took a back seat to letting my body just… feel the effects he has on me.

“But I’m not a man who takes what isn’t freely given.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means… I’m going to protect you. And that means you’re going to trust that I’m not going to take advantage of you when you’ve just been held at gunpoint. So, you’re going to take a hot shower, put on one of my shirts, get in that bed and go to sleep.”

The way the emotions war within me at that suggestion is almost physically too much. The desire to do what he says, the wariness of his unhinged behavior, the excitement of sharing his bed, the comfort of knowing he won’t take it further… the sharp disappointment of knowing he won’t take it further…

God, Eleanor, pick a damn side.

He releases me and I shuffle away against the wall until I’m clear of him. Then, with really nothing else to do, I head for the bathroom.

“And Eleanor?”

I turn.

“If you try to lock that door to keep me out, it won’t work.”

17

Eleanor

I’m not sure that whatever’s between us is enough for me to get over that.

I knew we’d wake up like this. I knew that if I didn’t lock the door—or, according to him, even if I did—then the next-morning entanglement would be as embarrassing as it is sexually frustrating.

I just didn’t expect to be the one spooning him.

Though, to be fair, as I come to full consciousness, I realize that it’s not technically an all-out spooning. My hand is resting on his side just above his hip, my legs are curled in the space behind his knees, and my head is tucked against his back, but my ass is scooted back far enough that we’re not quite nestled.

His breathing is deep, even, and I can even hear a faint honk-shoo, so I allow myself the opportunity to stare at the ridged, defined contours of his back. The skin is stretched tight over all that muscle, and mostly hairless. But it isn’t exactly smooth, with plenty of freckles, moles and shiny pink scars. There’s a round one near his right shoulder, a long cut that slashes diagonally through his spine, another round one down by his hip, and a tiny crescent moon-shaped one a few inches to the left.

He’s clearly been through a lot. I wonder if it ever made him cry. Because I can’t seem to.

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