Page 175 of Those Who Are Bound

“Lucy…”

“I’ll be fine. I’m an all-grown-up person with a movie ready to go, food for days, coffee, and a phone. I’ll probably fall asleep anyway.”

He pressed his lips together, debating.

“Killion! I’m fine; go see your mother.”

He gave her a mischievous grin. “Yeah, but if something happens to you, there goes the paycheck. Almost lost it all before I got a full week in, you jumping on a stranger’s bike.”

Elliott snarked, “There’s something called termination for insubordination.”

“Nah, I’m good on that front.” He chuckled.

She smiled; hewasgood on that front. He reminded her so much of Gage with his asinine humor; it felt good and it hurt. “For now.” Waving her hand toward the door, she ordered, “Get out and let me watch my horror movie.”

He side-shuffled toward the door, scrutinizing her setup again, checking to make sure she’d be okay. Satisfied, he finally left.

Elliott turned her attention to the television and the random horror film playing there. Horror, because it was the only thing she could handle. She couldn’t watch romance knowing how she’d royally destroyed the one she’d hoped she’d have. Looking at the television reminded her of the rom-coms she’d watched when she’d met Jonah, acting giddy and girlie and optimistic.

A month. She’d been without him longer than she’d been with him, but her world was changed by him. How did that happen?

Now, she thought in terms of “Jonah” and “after Jonah,” not even “before Jonah,” because that time didn’t matter to her. Just the weeks where he took the oxygen from her lungs, consumed her soul, stunned her brain, and ignited her body with his touch. His hands, his lips, his tongue; everywhere he touched: scorched in the best possible way.

Dropping her head back, she slipped her hand into her panties; the thought of him, as usual, making her wet, her clit throb. She pinched, gasping at the sting, imagining what more he would have done to her if she’d let him—would there have been more? She’d always had the sense he’d held something back. Or was it wishful thinking on her part?

Rolling her hips against her fingers, imagining him, wishing for him, she pushed against the tears and the sensation of despair—that would come after; it was inevitable. At this moment, she only wanted to feel good, to remember how he’d made her feel. Desired, ravished, possessed.

His mouth tasting every part of her, claiming every inch as his own; tongue warm and soft yet searing; teeth nipping, biting. Remembering the fierce look in his eyes the night he’d crawled up her body and instructed her to never order him away from her bed in the middle of the night—how he’d buried himself in her, branding her in another manner.

She jerked against her own hand, and she gasped his name, then gasped again as warm liquid—not from her—saturated her leg, thigh, and buttocks. Jumping, she was startled back to reality. Her movements had caused her coffee cup to spill.

Without thinking, she tried to leap up to get away from the mess.

Except she couldn’t leap. The pressure on her Aircast sent her tumbling back into the cushions, which upset everything else. The coffee was already spilled, but now the popcorn joined the mess.

For a frustrated minute, Elliott lay in the mess she made, thinking it was just desserts. Her body was still throbbing, denied, and now her clothes were sopping up rapidly cooling liquid. “Typical.”

On the television, a blond woman was being mutilated. Elliott watched the bloodbath, not really registering the fake blood and exaggerated screams. Because the guilt overwhelmed her. She was in a far better place than she could have been.

Struggling off the sofa, she hobbled her way to her shower.

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