Page 26 of Taken Off Camera
“Am I a security matter?” The question slips out with more vulnerability than intended.
His hand touches my shoulder. “You’re many things, Elliot. A security matter isn’t one of them.”
The weight of his impending departure settles in my chest, heavy as stone. Three days of not being alone have reset my expectations of what’s possible. Tomorrow, I’ll wake up to empty rooms and silence. No GentlemanX bringing me soup or reading to me until I fall asleep.
Keys jingle as he collects them from my kitchen counter. “I’ve stocked your refrigerator with meals for the next few days. Instructions are on the containers.”
My throat tightens. “You didn’t have to do that.”
“I wanted to.” His footsteps move toward the door. “Your friend Saint texted again. I told him you’re recovering well, but I think he knew it wasn’t you responding. He wants you to call him.”
“I will.” I push away from the couch, testing my balance. My legs hold me up, though not steadily.
The door handle rattles, and panic floods my system that he’s preparing to leave.
“Wait.” I move toward him, hands outstretched.
His fingers catch mine, guiding me forward until I stand before him. The subtle scent of his pheromones wraps around me, familiar after days in his presence.
“Thank you,” I whisper, tightening my grip on his hands. “For staying to care for me.”
His thumb traces circles on my palm. “You don’t need to thank me.”
“I want to.” My heart hammers. “Before you go, can I have a kiss?”
The air between us turns tense, and his hands freeze in mine, his breathing changing rhythm.
“A kiss,” he repeats, as if testing the words.
“Unless that crosses a line,” I add quickly. “Our arrangement has been… unusual.”
His silence stretches so long that heat rises to my cheeks.
I misread the situation and pushed for too much.
7
When he continues to stay silent, I try to recover, aiming for casual. “We could do this again, if you wanted to.”
More silence follows, broken only by our breathing, and I’m grateful for the blindfold hiding the desperation that must show in my face.
When he still doesn’t respond, I reach up, fingers seeking his face. “Let me touch you at least.”
His hand captures my wrist, his grip firm but gentle. “Don’t.”
The single word stings, but when I try to pull away, he holds fast.
“I’m sorry.” My fingers curl into my palm. “I thought… never mind. You can go.”
“No.” His grip softens, and he guides my hand back down. “You misunderstand.”
My breath catches. “What do you mean?”
He pulls me closer, his body heat radiating through my thin T-shirt. “I would like to see you again. Very much.”
“Then why?—”
“I don’t want you to touch my face.” The words come out in a rush. “I don’t want you to be scared away.”
