Page 56 of Gamble
“Perfect,” she murmured, but when she looked up into his eyes, there was a longing in her eyes that suggested she meant more than just the scarf.
Breaking their intimate connection, Elijah opened the passenger door and ushered her into the car before hopping in and returning them to the interstate.
They drove in comfortable silence for a while, the desert gradually giving way to the stark mountains that surrounded Los Angeles. Reagan reached for the radio, scanning through static until she found a classic rock station. The opening guitar riff of “Free Bird” filled the air, and she cranked up the volume with a satisfied grin.
“Perfect driving music,” she called over the wind, settling back against his side, her hand again resting on his inner thigh.
Elijah couldn’t hide his surprise. “Most women your age would be looking for pop music or that electronic stuff.”
“Most women my age don’t have taste,” she shot back before she started singing along to Lynyrd Skynyrd with surprising accuracy.
Another piece of the puzzle that was Reagan Murphy fell into place. Beautiful, intelligent, sexually adventurous, and she appreciated classic rock. If he wasn’t careful, he was going to start believing the universe had custom-made her just for him.
With each mile he drove, Elijah memorized every detail of the moment. The weight of her against him, the way the afternoon sun caught the gold threads in her scarf, the contented sigh she released every few minutes.
It was Reagan who broke the amicable silence as they began their descent toward the city sprawl. Traffic was now heavy enough that he’d had to slow to speeds that made it easier to hear each other over the wind.
“Penny for your thoughts,” she said, her fingers tracing absent patterns on his leg through his jeans.
Elijah glanced down at her for the hundredth time, struck again by how right she felt beside him. “Just thinking about what a perfect weekend this has been,” he said truthfully.
“Has been?” she teased. “Past tense already?”
“You know what I mean,” he replied, letting his growing dread at the idea of saying goodbye seep into his voice.
He needed to put distance between them—start preparing for the inevitable goodbye. Because what else could this be? She was young, successful, beautiful—she could have any man she wanted. What would she want with a banged-up ex-stuntman who got his kicks tying women up and making them beg?
As if sensing his thoughts, Reagan shifted beside him, pulling back enough to study his profile.
“You’re getting that look again,” she said.
“What look?” Elijah tried to play it cool.
“The same one you had in Vegas when you thought you were too old for me. Like you’re trying to talk yourself out of something good.”
Damn, she reads me like a book.
“Maybe I am,” he admitted. “Maybe we both should.”
The words hung between them like a challenge, and Elijah regretted them. But it was better to be honest now than to let her get too attached to something that couldn’t work long-term. Right?
Reagan was quiet for a long moment, and when she spoke, her voice was smaller than he’d heard it all weekend.
“Is that what you want? To talk yourself out of this?”
The question hit him like a physical blow. What he wanted and what was smart were two entirely different things. What he wanted was to take her home to his place, to show her his playroom, to introduce her to a world of pleasure and pain that would bind them together in ways vanilla relationships never could. What he wanted was to wake up next to her every morning and fall asleep with her in his arms every night.
Unfortunately, what was smart was recognizing that she deserved someone who could give her the white picket fence future he’d never be able to provide.
“I want what’s best for you,” he answered.
Anger flashed through her green eyes. “Shouldn’t that be my decision to make?”
Before he could answer, the highway curved, and the Los Angeles skyline came into view, a sprawling metropolis of dreams and broken promises stretching toward the Pacific Ocean. The sight of downtown’s gleaming towers should have felt like coming home after their desert adventure, but instead it felt like approaching the end of something magical.
They drove in silence until he neared the general area that he knew she lived. “Tell me where I’m going,” he said, his voice rougher than he’d intended.
Reagan’s directions were quiet and precise, guiding him through the familiar streets of West Hollywood toward a modern apartment complex that looked like the kind of placea successful young professional would live. Safe, upscale, respectable.
