Page 58 of The Anchor Holds

His slate gaze was unyielding, inescapable, and fuck, did it hold me in place. It quieted the static inside of my mind.

“I’m not a good woman, Elliot,” I admitted. “I never will be.”

Elliot stared at me for a handful of seconds instead of rushing to fill the silence with assurances that he knew me to be good or some such bullshit that I had assumed would be his knee-jerk reaction.

“I think I’ll be the judge of that.” He stroked my jaw with his thumb. “And even if you are, I’m a grown man. Think I can make the decision if I want something a little different for once. Because maybe I like bad women. Maybe I like you.”

The honesty of his feelings, the way he laid them out without adornment or agenda hit me square in the chest.

When was the last time a man said he liked me? Ever? I didn’t think any man had said anything like that, truthfully or not. I’d never let any man think that that was an appropriate thing to say, never let someone get close enough to say it. Except Jasper. And he’d never verbalized something like that. Never exposed that weakness. I couldn’t even be sure whether he truly liked me.

“I like you too.” My words fell out of my mouth before I could stop them.

I was horrified, my body clamming up the second I said them, even though they tasted sweet and natural on my tongue.

When I stepped out of his grasp, he let me. I immediately missed his fingertips. My gaze scanned the floor so I didn’thave to look at him. Indeed, the buttons of my blouse were scattered like pebbles across the hardwood, the ruined fabric laying draped over a bar stool. Before I could think better of it, I plucked Elliot’s tee from where it lay on the ground, hauling it over my head while not letting myself revel in the scent.

With businesslike efficiency, as if it were completely normal, I tucked the shirt into my skirt before slipping each of my heels on with ease.

Though I didn’t look up, I knew that Elliot was watching my every moment. He did it silently, the air in the bar impossibly heavy.

After fortifying my mental shields and placing my bitch mask back in place, I looked up at him. It was lucky I’d had years of experience schooling my features so I didn’t display just how attractive I found him. Standing shirtless, jeans unbuttoned to reveal his washboard abs, the sculpted V leading down to his cock. The tanned arms with a smattering of freckles along his shoulders, every muscle defined.

His mussed curls brushed over his eyebrows, expression still easy, content, eyes playful and possessive at the same time as they focused on the shirt I’d stolen.

I rolled my lips together, still tasting him on me, still feeling him inside of me. “You won’t be seeing this shirt again.” I was unable to think of anything else to say. Until I straightened my shoulders, remembering who I was. “And you won’t be seeing me again.”

His lips quirked as he folded his arms across his impressive pecs. I forced myself not to watch the movement of his muscles as he did so.

“I will,” he said back. “I’ll be seeing both you and that shirt as I bend you over and fuck you in it in my bedroom. After which you’ll collapse on my bed, so sated, so exhausted you won’t havethe energy to fight me, then you’ll sleep until I wake you with my cock again.”

The words were so completely at odds with his casual, easygoing stance and expression, my mouth momentarily went dry, lost for words as I imagined that very scenario.

My body warmed at the prospect of just that, my hands curling into my palms with the need to do it. Right that instance.

I steeled myself.

“Keep dreaming,” I remarked lamely before turning on my heel and walking out.

“Don’t need to dream when I’ve got the memory of you,” he called to my back.

And fuck me if my step stuttered just a little.

I pretended it didn’t.

I’d have to do a lot of pretending, a lot of lying to get myself free of Elliot Shaw. And it was becoming clear that I’d have to hurt both of us to make that happen.

Twelve

July — Noah Cyrus

We were drinking wine on the patio of Nora and Rowan’s house. The summer breeze was taking its last breath, the days slowly getting darker as fall crept in. I was eager for it. Colder weather resonated with me more.

And I had made myself familiar with the local fishermen’s schedules, which was the reason I hadn’t seen Elliot in over a week. He was out. Fishing. The season began at the end of June and carried on until the end of fall.

Although I kept busy with work, trying to find a way to salvage my life by untangling it from organized crime and Jasper—something that kept me up into the wee hours of the morning—and babysitting, I still found myself with time to think about Elliot.

To want him.

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