Her cold Heart

| 4 | Say It

Elijah’s P.O.V

I have no idea what the hell this woman is doing to me, but I want her. I want her in a bad way, in a different way than I want most women.

In that way, I only want to win. In that way I want a verdict in my favor, in that clawing, burning me inside out while I wait for the outcome kind of way.

Like I’ve waited for this woman, fought for her, given everything for her when I’ve only just met her.

“You aren’t answering,” I press, giving her no room to run again, to back out. Forcing her to make a decision.

“Isn’t this what you want? To go someplace. To fuck.”

“Yes,” she says just as softly, her eyes meeting mine, no blink, no hesitation to her reply, and yet, there is more to her answer.

“That’s what I want.”

It’s a simple answer, but there is nothing simple about this woman. She’s a puzzle I want to solve, and I’m clearly aroused as f**k by puzzles because I’m ten degrees of hard and hot. I’m also one wrong word or move, from never getting the chance, which is why I push her for a firm decision.

“Say it then,” I press. “Say you want to fuck.”

“Why wouldn’t I say it?”

“Why aren’t you saying it?” I challenge.

Her eyes sharpen, and she leans into me, soft curves against every hard part of me. She closes her hand around my tie, and tugs gently.

“I want to f**k and nothing else. No conversation. No getting to know each other. And we use a condom because I don’t do this kind of thing, and I’m not going to make it life-changing. So, if you don’t have one—”

I cup her head again and kiss her. “Of course I have a condom.”

“Because you’re a manwhore?” she taunts.

“I’m no manwhore, sweetheart,” I say, and it’s true. I f**k when I want to f**k, but I don’t welcome the distraction of a needy woman often. I’m an alpha I have other priorities, I can’t have distractions.

“And yet you’re well-stocked, with condoms.”

If she was anyone else, I’d simply say, ‘yes,’ but I want more than a f**k from her, I never want more than a f**k.

And so, I play quid pro quo. I give her something. So she feels likes she owes me something. “My father put one in my wallet when I was sixteen and told me to replace it every six months one way or the other.”

“Because your father was a manwhore?”

“Actually,” I say, my voice hardening. “He was protecting me from power hungry females, the condom was a good lesson. Never make one night ruin your life, right, sweetheart?”

Her eyes narrow on me, and I realize I’ve done what I never do. I’ve given her a piece of information about myself, what drives me, what motivates me, that I give no one.

She knows. She’s smart. She’s sharp. She sees people. She sees me.

Before I can analyze how I feel about that, she says, “Right,” and cuts her gaze, telling me that she hasn’t just seen more of me than I let most see, but that I’ve seen a piece of her, some open wound that my own wound has torn at.

She wants an escape, not confinement, and while I want to know why, I know I have to wait. I can’t drive and push and corner, which is my nature. Not yet. Not now. I slide a finger under her chin, studying her, but whatever was there is gone now. “Let’s just focus on ruining each other for the night,” I suggest.

“You think you can ruin me in one night?”

“I’d like to try.”

“That’s interesting,” she says.

“What’s interesting?”

“I thought you’d declare victory already,” she replies.

“Why do anything that easy? You’re not easy. You’re a challenge.”

“I'm your pray, and your the hunter who has to catch me,” she assumes.

“Maybe,” I say. “But you’re standing in front of me, and I haven’t caught you yet.”

“Then why aren’t we moving?”

“We are,” I say, drawing her hand into mine and setting us in motion. A few steps forward, and my fingers slip between hers, and I bend our elbows, inching her close, our hips aligned.

I am not about to let her escape.