Page 51 of The Anchor Holds

Though I didn’t want to bring Jasper into my mind, into that space, anywhere near the proximity in my mind where Elliot was, I couldn’t help but think of comparisons. I’d never seen Jasper in anything but a suit in his adult life … if he wasn’t naked. Never in anything casual. Relaxed. I’d found comfort in that because I have never been able to relax; he was someone who understood me. At least that’s what I’d told myself.

Except I had recently begun to understand that Jasper was a cage, an electrified one. If I relaxed even a little, let myself test the sides, I’d get a shock, pain. He needed me to stay cold, cruel, predictable. Controllable. That’s why he’d murdered Naomi. My proverbial electric shock.

I mused over all of this as Elliot made my drink and placed it in front of me.

I tore my gaze from him to the glass. Which wasn’t glass at all. “This is plastic.” I tapped the side of the faux martini glass with my nail, screwing up my nose.

“That it is.” Amusement burst from his tone.

I met his gunmetal eyes. “I do not drink out of plastic cups. I’m not a preschooler.”

The corner of his lips turned up. “It’s the nature of the beast at a beach bar.”

“I don’t care if it’s written in stone on a tablet on the wall.” I pushed the plastic cup toward him with a single finger. “Find me a glass for my drink, or I won’t be paying for it, and I most certainly will be leaving.”

My tone told him I was serious. It was a tone I’d never heard a quarrel from, only submission. I didn’t consider myself a Domme in any sense of the word, but despite his muscles—with his curls, his easy smile and casual demeanor —Elliot did not seem like he would be the first man to stand up to me.

“I’ll make a note to have glasses here the next time you come in.” He pushed the plastic cup in my direction. “For now, you’ll have to slum it. Or don’t drink it. Even if you do, I ain’t charging you. And I don’t think you’re going to be leaving either.” His tone, his arched brow and teasing eyes were all cocky, confident.

He had leaned his elbows on the bar top, reaching over to be closer to me. His simple scent made my fingers curl. Pheromones. That’s all it was. But he had some mighty nice ones. Or maybe it was because he was novel; he didn’t smell like the expensive, custom-made colognes I was used to on the men I came into close vicinity with.

And unlike the men I’d been in close proximity to, he didn’t submit.

No, Elliot Shaw surprised me very much by refusing to back down.

It was extraordinarily sexy.

I pursed my lips, not betraying the wetness between my legs as he exposed the controlling, domineering side of him that complimented his easygoing nature in a way that should’ve been impossible.

“What makes you think that I won’t walk out right now?” I used a tone that had made men’s balls shrink and then fold back into themselves.

Elliot only pressed himself farther across the bar, eyes locked onto mine. “Because, Calliope Derrick, you like being in control. You like glasses for your martinis. And despite your best efforts, you like me. More than you like glasses for your martinis. And you like it when I control you. In certain situations.” There was still that ease to his words, but they had a rasp to them. An undercurrent. Of carnality. Darker than I would’ve expected from my golden retriever fisherman.

I licked my lips, without initially being entirely aware that I was doing it. Me. Whose every gesture was calculated, purposeful. I wasn’t above using my wiles to get what I wanted in a situation—men had been taking things from us for years. It was more than healthy for me to take things from them by using the thing they thought they could own: our sexuality.

But I wasn’t trying to control Elliot with my sexuality, didn’t want to steer him with feigned interest in him.

I was trying to do the opposite. I didn’t want him to know I was interested in him, more interested than I had any right to be.

Not just because the interest I had in the man went beyond being purely sexual—which was warning bell number one. But because he was a good person. When he smiled, it reached his eyes. He laughed, and it came from his belly. There was no emptiness, no bone-chilling abyss in his gaze. I didn’t see my sins when I looked at him, didn’t feel like a dirtbag.

I ran my finger in a circle around the rim of the downright offensive plastic cup.

Leave,I told myself. On principle because of the plastic cup and because of how presumptuous he was being about me after one night together. And because he was challenging me. I always won a challenge.

My hand circled around the cup, then I brought it to my lips. It was ice-cold, sharp and one of the best martinis I’d ever had outside of Bemelmans, and Elliot’s might’ve had theirs beat if it weren’t in plastic.

He watched me drink with a smirk that wasn’t cocky but possessive, knowing. Satisfied.

“You’ve fucked me once.” I set the drink down, leaning forward so no one else would hear me—these fucking small towns would be the death of me—and so I could get closer to him. “You know what it feels like to be inside me, that’s it.” I kept my words brash, vulgar, combative. Just because I’d lost the first battle of whatever this was didn’t mean I’d stop fighting.

Elliot’s eyes flared as they dropped to my lips, his Adam’s apple bobbing from the visible swallow he took. “I fucked youthreetimes.” Though low, I heard what he said, over the hum of conversation and music. “I know what it feels like to have my cock, tongue and fingers inside that glorious pussy of yours.” He leaned forward even closer so that his lips were almost brushing my ear. “And I know that I’m going to be doing that right here, on this bar, in just a few hours. So you sit here, drink your martini like a good girl, and think about how I’m going to fuck you so hard that you’ll come apart in my hands, forgetting that you’re meant to be wound tight and in control.”

My body melted and ignited at the words, my hands wrapping around the plastic glass to the point of almost crushing it.

At his words, my tongue felt like it doubled in size, and I forgot the sharp retorts that typically came as second nature. I didn’t have time for that, anyway. The second Elliot deliveredhis last word, he pushed back off the bar, gave me one more lingering look then turned his attention to a patron to my left, asking about a tab or the current value of the US dollar… Fuck, who knew what he was asking them. All I could hear were those words, echoing in my ears.

Good girl.

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