Her cold Heart

| 5 | Stay

Elijah’s P.O.V

“Where are we going?” she asks.

“The Four Seasons.”

“Two blocks,” she says, confirming by her knowledge that she is from around here. This is, as I’d assessed, her world, while up until the present day, or near future rather, it’s been mine only on occasion, but she’d nailed me. Age, career, attitude. I am arrogant. I have to be. It’s survival of the fittest.

The wind lifts around us, and her perfume is something almost smoky and floral, addictive and unique, like everything about this woman. And she is unique, despite the fact that I’ve known ambitious, intelligent women.

I’ve f****d women that should feel just like her, but that simply isn’t the case. She’s layers of secrets I want revealed. I’ll analyze why later, after we f**k. Or maybe I won’t. f*****g tends to put things in perspective.

As my father said when he gave me that first condom, “What you want when you have a hard on for a girl, is rarely what you want when you pull out.”

harsh, and ultimately as dumb as it sounds, he is right. s*x has a way of distorting reality and then punching it right back in your face.

We cross the street, bringing the hotel into view, and without a conscious decision to do so, when I never do anything unconsciously, I tighten my grip on her hand. She’s already bolted once. I’m not letting her bolt again.

We approach the front door, and thankfully the doorman is attending someone else, considering Bonnie’s appears to want privacy, anonymity. I don’t waste any time guiding her toward the elevators, and once we’re inside, I stick my card into the slot to set us in motion.

I snag her hand and walk her to me. Her hands settle on my chest. We stand there, the floors dinging by, the air charged between us, but we don’t speak. She doesn’t ask me a question. Not about the hotel. Not about when I’m coming back. Not about who I am.

Somehow, I know she knows that quid pro quo I’ve started. Every question she asks allows me to ask one of my own. I don’t push her now. Not with cameras in the elevator. That’s not what people like me do. We save our dirty business for private places. And this is going to get dirty, in all the right ways.

I’ll ask my questions, and I’ll get my answers. When we’re inside my suite. When we’re naked.

The elevator dings, and then I lean in and kiss her, a gentle, barely-there brush of lips on lips, our breaths a warm puff between us that turns to fire and heat.

“Come on,” I say, taking her hand, guiding her down the hallway until we stop at the penthouse suite I’ve been calling home for nearly a month. The place where I plan to strip her naked in every possible way.

I lead Bonnie to the door, and pull her in front of me, my body framing hers as I slide the key into the security panel. It buzzes and I shove open the door, inviting her to enter, and in doing so, I know that I have a choice to make: Take the edge off, and do her hard and fast right when we go inside, or let it simmer, let the attraction between us burn us alive until we’re both about to combust from the heat.

She pulls away from me, a sweet swoosh of her perfume teasing my nostrils as she enters the suite. My fingers curl into my fists as I resist reaching for her. I inhale for control and let out a breath before I follow her into the luxury suite, seeing what she sees.

Gray hardwood floors. An oriental rug beneath gray leather couches that frame a stone fireplace with floor-to-ceiling windows on either side. A stone and glass table to our left. Winding stairs to our right.

She stops just outside the line of the living area and I could step behind her, pull her skirt up and lean her over the couch. My c**k pressed against my zipper, thick and hard with the thought of it.

I’d be inside her in about thirty seconds, which includes rolling on the condom, and she’d be wet and hot and tight.

I step to her side, close enough to inhale another addictive whiff of her scent, but not quite close enough to touch her. “This is the hotel’s version of the penthouse suite, isn’t it?” she asks, glancing over at me.

“It is,” I say. “I’ve been here off and on for a few months, and it just made sense to be comfortable.”

She glances over at me. “The small pack isn’t that small, is it?”

“Not that small,” I confirm.

She rotates to face me. “You’re rich.”

I turn to face her as well. “Rich is a term that can be defined in many ways, but setting that aside, do I have money? Yes. I have a comfortable amount of money.”

She stares at me, her expression unreadable, but there is this sharp bite of energy before she turns away from me and leans against the couch, her fingers grabbing onto the cushion. Tense, shutting me out, or rather, trying to.

I have a typical guy moment, where I consider the answer to her mood by the way of how much I want to f**k her. If I repeat the hallway fantasy against the couch, we could be f*****g, and f*****g every thought she has away. Puzzle solved. We are f*****g great at f*****g together, only that’s not the puzzle. She is.

I move to stand in front of her, close, but I still don’t touch her. “Why does me having money bother you?” I ask.

Her chin lifts, eyes glinting almost defiantly. “Who says it bothers me?”

“Me,” I say, “I do. I felt it in your reaction. I feel it now. I see it in your eyes.”

“You see nothing in my eyes,” she counters. “You’re alpha intuition on how to read people might be good, but my mask is just as good.”

“Tonight I’m not an Alpha” I point out. “I am a man whose money bothers you.”

“You having money is a non-factor. This is one night. We’re f*****g or we’re supposed to be. We’re not proposing marriage.”

“Most women start plotting the wedding as soon as they hear money and alpha.”

“I thought you knew by now I’m not like most woman and I’m perfectly cable of making my own money.”

My hands go down on her waist while hers immediately come down on mine. A sign that she is out of her element, seeking control that I’m going to demand she gives up.

“Is that the issue?” I demand softly, my head low, a lean in from kissing her. “You feel competitive?”

“No,” she says immediately, pulling back to look at me, her hand flattening on my chest. “Not at all. I don’t feel competitive. We aren’t competing.”

“No?” I challenge.

“No,” she repeats.

“Any second thoughts about coming here?”

“No,” she says again.

“Then you still want me to f**k you,” I say.

“No,” she says. “I want to f**k you.”

I laugh because she isn’t being bold and sexy. She’s playing tug of war. “No competition though, right?”

“That’s not competing. It’s stating a fact.”

“You can f**k me when I tell you to f**k me.”

She laughs. “You’re competitive.”

“And I always win.”

“Not with me.”

“Interesting,” I say, damn glad I didn’t just f**k her hard and fast. I’m going to enjoy this tug of war she’s playing. And I’m going to make sure she not only enjoys it, but that she wants more.

“Come with me,” I say, releasing her and starting to walk toward the bedroom. My tug. Her war.

Izaya's P.O.V

I want to understand. I want to know why he saw this in me, but I’m treading on tomorrow territory and he doesn’t give me a chance anyway. His hands come down on my waist and he sets me on the floor in front of him, tying the belt around the robe for me. “Are you hungry? I’m hungry. Let’s order room service.”

I want to say yes. Why does this man make me want to say yes to everything?

“This is where I’m supposed to leave.”

“Says who?” he asks.

“Me. I said—”

“One night,” he says, “not two hours. Which means our one night is not over. I leave tomorrow morning. What do you have to lose by staying?”

What do I have to lose?

Myself, I think.

My career.

My independence.

“We are out of condoms,” I point out.

“And as you can tell, I can be creative.” His lips curve. “When I’m well fed. I want you to stay Bonnie.” His voice is low, rough, compelling. “Forget what you planned to do. Do what we both want you to do. Stay with me.”

I should say no, but I don’t.

“Yes,” I say, because nothing has changed. He might kiss like trouble, but this is one night and trouble can’t touch me tomorrow.