Page 34 of Make Me Yours
When I opened my eyes, Cohen was back, watching me from across the room. Our gazes collided and held. Then his eyes drifted down to Mr. Eyebrow Stud’s hands gripping my hips and he frowned, his eyebrows knitting together. Seeing Cohen when all my defenses were down was wreaking havoc on my willpower. I wanted nothing more than to go to him. To touch him, taste him. His icy-blue gaze remained locked on mine, his expression unreadable, and I fought the urge to cross the room.
He pressed a finger to the earpiece again, listening intently and set off for the bar. Even as I danced with another man, my eyes followed Cohen’s every moment, the tense way he moved, the stiff set of his shoulders. He reached the bar, and another guy in a black security shirt. He and Cohen exchanged a few words, and then Cohen took hold of a blonde girl near them, steering her by the arm off the stool and across the crowded room, parting the sea of bodies for them as he moved.
He walked down a back hallway, guiding the girl in front of him forward with the hand at the base of her spine until they disappeared from sight. My imagination ran wild, picturing her doing to him what I did just a few weekends ago. The thought made me sick and then cold, hard realization smacked me in the face. This was just what Cohen felt like seeing Stu leaving my house. God, I was a bitch. I had no one to blame for this mess but myself. Well, fate played a hand, too. But she was cold and hard and nasty, and that would never change—no matter how hard I wanted otherwise.
The liquor in my stomach churned violently and suddenly, I had to get away. I stumbled across the dance floor, squeezing past bodies as I went, fighting my way to the restroom.
I was nearly there—alone in a back hallway when a single word pulled me to a halt.
“Eliza.”
Cohen closed the distance between us, and as soon as he was near, all of my resolve disappeared. The drinks had caught up with me, and that, coupled with Cohen’s presence and familiar scent, was fucking with my head. “You work here?” I asked, leaning closer to him, tracing the lettering stretched across his T-shirt with a fingertip.
The girl he was escorting was nowhere in sight, and I realized with a twinge of shame that he was just doing his job, probably depositing an over-beveraged patron into the restroom.
His hands darted out to steady me, gripping my hips as I wobbled in the impossibly high heels, and I clutched his biceps for support. “I thought I told you I worked security at a club.” His words were hollow, and efficient, like he wanted to get this conversation over as soon as possible.
I nodded, remembering that he had. I just hadn’t known it was this club. This place was known to be a meat market. I was sure drunk girls were constantly throwing themselves at him. I pushed the errant thought away. He wasn’t mine, and I didn’t care. But I did. Even as I fought it, I knew I did.
“What were you doing… I saw you bring that girl back here…” I stopped myself, knowing I was coming off as jealous when I had no right to be, and that there was probably a perfectly reasonable explanation.
His eyes studied mine, searching out my hidden meaning. “Were you worried I was back here fucking her?”
His words stung, and I looked down, unable to respond.
“You can let some random guy put his hands all over you out on the dance floor, and sleep with Professor Gibson but I can’t interact with females where I work?” His words were bitter and harsh, but his voice remained calm, too calm, and low, intended for only me to hear. He ran his hands over his face, his frustration evident. “Christ, Eliza. What do you want from me?” He pressed the heels of his hands into his eyes. “I’m tired of your head games. You need to figure out what the fuck you want.”
I swallowed down my nerves. “I know,” I said, though my voice came out breathy and unsure.
He frowned and shook his head. He leaned in toward me, closing me in against the wall, his height causing him to tower over me. “So what is it then…?”
I didn’t know exactly what he was asking, but I had an idea. He was inquiring about us. I looked up into his eyes, and all my resolve softened. “Cohen, please…” I breathed, barely a whisper and laid my head on his chest.
He pulled me securely to him and held me in place. We didn’t say anything for several moments, just stood together, the beating of our hearts thumping in rhythm.
“Ashlyn and Aiden got engaged,” I said, meeting his eyes.
He nodded. “I knew. He told me he planned to do it.”
“Oh.”
Cohen’s brow creased. “Is that what’s got you upset?” His thumb skimmed along my jaw, as if to coax a response from me, but I stayed quiet. “Eliza… You are a mystery to me.”
I stared up into icy-blue eyes that held so much kindness and beauty in one perfect package. Maybe I was screwed up in the head. I trusted that Cohen wouldn’t hurt me, but it was life’s circumstances that worried me, and I was pretty sure Cohen wouldn’t want me once he found out the truth.
His eyes stayed on mine, looking worried. “You can’t be with me, but you can grind up against some guy out there, huh?” He placed his hands against my shoulders, holding me in place to monitor my reaction.
Watching him look me over, like he was inspecting me for damages was infuriating. I wasn’t his to protect, to look over. Then why did a small part of me enjoy the feeling? The way Cohen was always teasing me and his damn nicknames—I’d tried to convince myself that it all grated against my nerves, that I didn’t like it…but that was a lie. Maybe I was glutton for pain—I attracted what I couldn’t have just to torture myself.
The truth was I felt alive with Cohen. He made the baggage of my past feel lighter, helped me to just live in the moment. It was refreshing. Maybe it was because it didn’t seem like there could be any sort of future for us—me with my loose morals and him with his…perfection—that made it so easy for me to spend time around him.
I couldn’t help but smile at the curve of his mouth, and the playful grin that urged me on. I thought about the smooth, tanned skin of his shoulders and back, where I longed to dig my nails in and hold on to for dear life. Because I was convinced that was what being with Cohen would be like—a life-altering experience in which I’d need to grasp onto tight and not let go. He wasn’t the kind of guy you let get away. That thought popped into my mind, unbidden and unwelcome. But once it was there, I couldn’t push it away.
He leaned in slowly and pressed a soft kiss to my lips. “What do you want from me? Tell me.”
The hallway was empty and dimly lit with bare florescent bulbs every several feet, and even though it wasn’t at all private, I wanted him. I gripped his sides, and lifted up to meet his lips again. The height of my heels made it easier to kiss him. “This. Please.” I didn’t even know what I was asking for. All I knew was that I was slightly drunk, and a mix of emotions ranging from sad to horny were racing through my system.
Cohen lowered his mouth to mine and kissed me thoroughly, his tongue pushing past my lips to coax and flirt with mine. All of my senses buzzed with his presence. Cohen alone was intoxicating, forget the alcohol. How in the world had I ever thought that Stu was enough?
