It’s not going to happen. This is Elijah Monroe we’re talking about. Famine.
Serial dater.
Smug jerk.
Not to mention my stepbrother.
My dad would kill me. And him. Forget about ever having another bite of Beverly’s cake. Who cares? Elijah’s kisses are sweeter.
I hear the sound of a key in the lock at the front door and my heart stutters. The deadbolt clicks open and I stop breathing. The door creaks and my eyes go wide. Elijah steps into the house, a hot sweaty sexy mess, and my jaw drops. I can hate him and still want to rip his clothes off like a five-year-old opening a present on Christmas morning.
His eyes catch mine and he smiles. “Hey, Short Stack. I’m gonna grab a shower.” He takes the stairs two at a time and disappears into his room in less than a minute.
What. The. Actual. Fuck.
I’ve been waiting hours for this explanation he promised me and he walks right past without so much as a second glance. He strolls into my house as if nothing has changed. As if my world isn’t irreparably tilted off-kilter because of him. Well, that’s not going to fly.
I storm up the stairs, march straight into our shared bathroom—the idiot didn’t even bother locking the door—and turn the sink on full hot. It takes about thirty seconds before he’s screaming obscenities and jumping out of the shower soaking wet. He shields his sensitive bits with the shower curtain as he stands dripping on the bathroom rug.
I hope he gets frostbite on his junk.
“What the hell was that for?” he groans.
I pull a towel off the rack and throw it at his chest. “You owe me an explanation.”
“And you owe my dick an apology.”
“Sorry, not sorry.”
He has the balls—shriveled as they might be right now—to laugh at me. He drops the shower curtain and wraps himself in the towel. It takes all the willpower I possess not to let my eyes dip below his waist as he does. Still, I have to bite my lip to push away the images I’m conjuring.
“Do I at least get to put some pants on?”
I gesture back toward his room, adding, “By all means.” I follow right behind him, standing in the doorway like the bouncer at a crowded club.
“Care to give me a hand?” he teases.
“In your dreams, Elijah. I’m here for my explanation. Not a peep show.”
He shakes his head, grabs a pair of boxers from his top drawer, and slides them on before letting the towel fall to the ground. Elijah Monroe is a gorgeous specimen standing before me, still moist from the shower, in nothing but a thin pair of boxer briefs. This time, I can’t control my wandering eyes, which trail up and down his nearly naked body. My skin flushes, cheeks burning and a familiar tingle between my thighs.
Jesus, the things I would do to this man.
“Not here for the peep show, huh? Could’ve fooled me.” He chuckles as he pulls on a pair of gym shorts.
My blush deepens with shame and my eyes dart around, desperate to land on anything but him. I stalk over to the other side of his room, making sure to stay well outside of arm’s reach, and stare out the window to avoid temptation.
“Can we just get this over with? What the hell is this bet about and why the hell did you kiss me?” I ask with my back to him, staring at the neighborhood kids playing catch in the street like it’s game seven of the World Series.
“I’ll tell you, but first you have to admit you liked it.” His voice is even. Calm. Cocky. Infuriating.
I whip around and glare at him, willing him to spontaneously combust. Much to my disappointment, not so much as a singe. He stares right back at me with a smug look on his beautiful punch-worthy face. My head is about to explode and he isn’t even rattled. He leans back against his dresser without a care in the world.
“Doesn’t the fire department test for drugs? You’ve got to be high right now.”
His smile widens. “Sober as a preacher on Sunday, I’m afraid.” He shoves off the dresser and stalks toward me. “Admit it. You loved it.”
“You practically attacked me.”
I try to back away, but my ass hits the windowsill behind me. My skin burns hotter the closer he gets, like I’m the one who’s going to catch fire. I need to keep a safe distance, but he’s between me and the bedroom door. All I can do is scoot along the wall, cornering myself between him and his large, empty bed.
He steps closer. “That’s not how I remember it. I seem to remember you moaning my name.”
I step back. “You were doing a fair amount of moaning yourself.”
“Never said I wasn’t.”
My retreat stalls when I feel my calves pressing into the edge of his mattress. One more half step and he’s in my space, consuming my whole world again as only he can. His arm wraps around my waist in an embrace that’s already alarmingly familiar. My traitorous body melts into his.
He brushes my hair off my shoulder as he leans down to my ear and pleads, “Just say it. You’ve wanted me to kiss you like that for years. Admit it and I’ll tell you everything.”
His voice is deep and sultry. Tempting. I want to confess. But I’m too damn stubborn for that.
“Never going to happen.” Whispering my words doesn’t hide the resolve they contain. My pride will never give into him, but my body has other plans. My arms slide around his waist and pull him against me, the need to be connected to him undeniable.
His hands cup my face, his thumb stroking my check. He whispers, “You’re like a song I can’t get out of my head.”
I lean in to him, grazing his palm with my lips as I confess, “You’re like an itch I’m not allowed to scratch.”
He brings my lips to meet his and kisses me softly, like a timid step onto thin ice. I can’t even pretend to resist him. I deepen the kiss, my tongue sliding against his, teasing and taunting. A hungry growl escapes his lips as his strong hands grab my thighs, lifting me up and wrapping my legs around his hips.
His calloused fingers slide under my shirt, tickling the sensitive skin at my sides, and I’m swept away in a lazy fervor. I spend a lifetime in every moment, living and dying with each touch. My heart luxuriates in the now while a desperate panic for more simmers in my soul.
Hungry for more of him, I tear my shirt off over my head. His deft fingers move to my bra clasp, unhooking and sliding it off my shoulders without ever allowing his lips to leave mine. My bare chest presses into Elijah’s and his cool skin feels like a soothing balm on my flushed body. My hard nipples press into him as his strong hands hold me firmly against his chest. My fingers coil into his hair, keeping him locked in our kiss.
I can feel his hard length against my stomach. I pull back just enough to slide my hand between us, snaking it into the shorts loose around his hips. The heat of his cock in my palm makes me moan his name. I grip him firmly, and with one stroke his knees buckle. We topple together onto his bed, a half-naked, tangled, panting mess. The weight of him on top of me, between my thighs, is divine. I want more. I want all of him.
His tortured moan matches my own as he pleads, “Slow down.”
He grabs both my wrists and pins them above my head. I writhe against him in protest. He leisurely kisses, licks, and nips his way down my body. His tongue flicks one sensitive nipple as his fingers pinch the other in the perfect mix of pleasure and pain. Torture and bliss. Love and hate.
He moves lower, peppering my stomach with kisses as he unbuttons my shorts. I lift my hips and he slides off my shorts and panties in a single swift tug. My crazed hands unceremoniously shove down his gym shorts and boxers in a lust-fueled frenzy. My fingers dig into his firm naked butt, pulling him down to me. I’m desperate for the delicious friction of his hard cock sliding against the slickness between my thighs.
He pulls back, his lips leaving my skin for the first time. I miss them instantly. He captures my hands, pinning them above my head again. This time he doesn’t hold my wrists. Instead, he interlaces our fingers, palm to palm. His emerald eyes peer down at me, searchin
g for something. An answer I’m not prepared to give to a question he’s too afraid to ask. He kisses me again like it’s the first time. Or the last. It’s gentle but penetrating.
“I want you,” he admits on a ragged breath. “All of you.”
“Then take me,” I answer without flinching.
As if accepting an unspoken challenge, a fire ignites in his eyes and a satisfied smile tugs at his full lips. He lowers himself onto me, wrapping me in a warm cocoon of his firm body. Skin on skin, we’re connected from head to toe. His lips hover over mine and we share a breath as he slides inside of me in a single smooth thrust. My fingers tighten around his as he fills me completely in a slow, easy rhythm.
The urgency and desperation of moments ago are forgotten as Elijah owns my body the way he’s always owned my heart. The world falls away and all I know is that Elijah Monroe was made for me. He fits me perfectly, molded to my body, touching every part of me and making me feel whole.
He glides in and out of me in the perfect rhythm. Tension builds in my core as he brings me closer to the edge. I feel myself falling, grasping for him. A war rages inside of me and I’m desperate to hold back all the words I can’t say.
Elijah pleads, “Let go, Harper.”
With a fervent kiss, my last defenses crumble and he sends me tumbling into blinding ecstasy. I tighten around him as waves of electric pleasure pulse through me. He follows quickly after, clutching me to him and coming inside of me. He collapses on top of me in a panting, sweaty mess. The crushing weight of him is comforting. My heart is racing and my head is spinning.
He doesn’t hold me as long as I need. With a peck on the forehead he’s up and out of the bed. I watch him strut into the bathroom buck naked. Alone and raw, my senses start to come back to me. I stare up at the ceiling and a bikini model stretched over the hood of a car stares right back at me.
“Leave me alone. I don’t judge your life choices,” I tell her. I hold the sheet to my chest and sit up. The water is running in the bathroom. Elijah is cleaning up. I take in the scene and realize what I’ve done.
I had sex with Elijah Monroe.
How could I let myself be so stupid? I never even got an explanation. I knew I was walking into his trap and I let myself do it. I wanted him so badly. I wanted to pretend, even for just a moment, that he was mine. But he’s not. My discarded bra taunts me as it hangs off one of Elijah’s old baseball trophies.
I hear the water shut off and the urge to escape overwhelms me. I jump out of bed and throw on my T-shirt and shorts, not bothering with niceties like undergarments. My bra and panties get stuffed in my back pocket like the tramp I am.
I meet Elijah at the door to the bathroom and try to brush past him.
“Wow, where’s the fire?” he jokes, trying to pull me against his still naked body.
I push him away and quip, “No fire. Just got things to do.”
“Don’t you think we should talk?”
I don’t want to hear his rejection. It would destroy me.
“About what? It’s called an anger bang. It happened. It won’t ever happen again. There. Talk over.”
His arms drop to his sides and he shoots away from me like I electrocuted him. His fingers ball up in his hair, tugging at it wildly. Guilt slices through me, but I don’t know why. He got what he wanted after all.
“That’s what this was to you?” His eyes lock on mine, desperate and pleading.
My heart and head war for control over my body. I want to comfort him. I want to slap him. I love him. I hate him.
I push down all my broken dreams and shrug. “We’re both adults. Nothing wrong with a hate fuck to release some of the frustration.”
His eyes turn ice-cold and he stares right through me. It’s like I’m not even here. “Got it. Glad we’re both on the same page now. Thanks for the release, Short Stack.”
He walks back into his room and slams the door. Music pours through his walls for the rest of the night. He’s gone by the time I wake up in the morning. So much for my dream of pancakes and cuddles.
Now…
Monday morning I’m a zombie. And not one of those fresh, just-bitten ones that can keep up with you as you run for your life. I’m the smelly, barely standing, hardly holding it together kind. I’m dead on my feet. I haven’t slept for two nights. After having the best sex of my life and running away in shame and horror Saturday, Eeyore kept his music cranked up all night. Any other time, I would’ve pounded on the door and demand he turn the shit down. Now I’m not going within fifty feet of Elijah Monroe unless my life depends on it. It’s self-preservation.
Last night I had the house to myself again. Dad called and said he and Beverly were extending another few nights. Instead of my usual concern over serial killers, I stayed up half the night listening for signs of Elijah. The Texas Chainsaw Massacre has nothing on an awkward post-sex accidental meet-up. I live in near constant fear of ever having to look Elijah in the eyes again.
The few moments I managed to drift off, what popped into my sleep-deprived brain? Yep, naughty and inappropriate thoughts about the one guy I can never have. Fantasies I can never indulge. So, yeah, I’m the walking dead at recess. I don’t even realize my phone is ringing until one of the kids points it out.
“Ms. D, your pocket is buzzing.”
I shake off the haze. “Huh? What’s that, Madison?”
She points at my pocket.
“Oh, thank you.” I pull out my phone and almost drop it when I see the San Francisco area code. Winsor Academy. The call I’ve been waiting for all summer. I smooth down my wrinkled blouse and try to collect myself before answering even though whoever is on the other line isn’t going to see me. “Harper Delaney.”
“Ms. Delaney, so glad I caught you. This is Theresa McAvoy calling from Winsor.”
I step to the side of the building, trying to shield the phone from at least some of the schoolyard commotion. “Mrs. McAvoy. Lovely to hear from you again.”
“I wanted to inform you the board has discussed your application at length. I’m sure you know, we don’t typically employ educators with such little classroom experience, but personally I think your youth could be a real asset to our campus. Luckily, enough of the board members agreed with me. We would like to offer you a full-time position this fall.”
This is the moment I’ve been working toward for the past six years. I should be ecstatic. What image flashes through my head at this moment of victory? The brilliant new students I’ll be teaching? Nope. My beautiful new classroom with every amenity a teacher could ask for? Na-ah. The amazing new apartment I will be able to afford? Not even close.
I picture Elijah. And that stupid goofy smile on his face after the first time he kissed me.
“Ms. Delaney?”
“Oh, sorry. I guess I was a little speechless there for a moment. Thank you so much for the offer.”
Mrs. McAvoy chuckles and asks, “Is that a yes?”
I hesitate. Why am I hesitating? This is the dream job. In the dream city.
“Ms. Delaney? Did I lose you again?”
“No, I’m still here. I’m just...thinking.”
The line goes quiet. Winsor Academy isn’t used to hearing anything but yes.
“Is there something to think about?”
“I would like to have a few days to consider my options.”
To her credit, Mrs. McAvoy doesn’t sound annoyed or insulted. “That is understandable. I will email the contract details to you today. We would like to hear back by the end of the week if that would suit.”
“Yes. That would be fine. Thank you.”
I hang up and ask Athena to cover my students for the rest of the day. I’m not feeling so good.
“Think about it? What the hell is there to think about?” Alisha screeches into the phone. “It’s San Francisco. It’s Winsor Academy. It’s perfect.”
I sigh. “I know. I know. I should take the job.”
“But?”
“B
ut, I don’t know. I’m just not sure it’s me anymore.”
“Who are you and what have you done with my best friend?” Alisha chides.
A twinge of guilt twists in my stomach for not being honest with her. I still haven’t told her about what happened with Elijah. I wouldn’t even know where to start.
“Seriously, what’s going on with you?”
Saved by the bell, my call waiting chimes in. “I’ve got a call on the other line. It might be Dad or Beverly. I’ll call you back in a bit.”
“Fine. But this isn’t over. Something’s up and I will find out what.”
“Love you too.” Clicking over, I ask, “Hello?”
“This is the Weaverton Hospital Emergency Room. May I speak with Mrs. Beverly Monroe-Delaney?”
My blood runs cold. Has something happened to Elijah?
“She’s out of town. This is Harper Delaney. What’s going on?”
“Ms. Delaney, there has been an accident. I need to speak with Elijah Monroe’s next of kin as soon as possible.”
My mind goes blank with fear. A bitter taste fills my mouth as adrenaline surges through me. “What happened? Is he okay?”
“I’m afraid I can only release information to his next of kin.”
“Look, I’m family, okay? Just tell me if he’s all right? Was there a fire?”
“I’m afraid I can’t releas—”
“Fine. I’m coming to the damn hospital then and you can tell me what the hell is going on.”
I hang up the phone. My hands are shaking as I grab my purse off the end table and say a silent prayer. Please, just let him be okay.
The drive is a blur, partly because I’m doing fifty in a twenty-five-mile zone and partly because I can’t stop the nightmares of Elijah’s charred body flashing through my head. He drives me to the edge of my sanity, but I can’t picture a world without him. I’ve taken it for granted that Elijah would always be a part of my life. The road gets blurry as tears fill my eyes. I wipe them away and focus on the white lines. I won’t lose him. I can’t.
I charge up to reception and practically scream at the nurse, “Elijah Monroe?” She stares at me blankly. “He’s a firefighter. Elijah Monroe. Where is he?” I’m loud enough to start getting a few stares.
Truce?: Hating Elijah Monroe Page 12