Total pages in book: 211
Estimated words: 201554 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1008(@200wpm)___ 806(@250wpm)___ 672(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 201554 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1008(@200wpm)___ 806(@250wpm)___ 672(@300wpm)
“I know a lot of things,” he says. “None of which we’re discussing in this elevator.”
My eyes narrow on him, on the hard lines of his face, the sharpness to his features I’ve never noticed until this moment. His defined cheekbones. His square jaw. His steely eyes. “Why are you angry?”
“I have a lot of reasons to be angry, don’t you think?”
“Of course, you have reasons, but this, this that you feel right now, is different.” The elevator halts and dings, announcing our arrival at our destination, while frustratingly cutting me off before I can press him for more, but it’s also the promise of privacy.
The doors open and he captures my hand and starts walking, leading me down the hallway toward his apartment. We don’t speak, but I can almost feel Eric shutting himself off, caging himself in a place where I don’t exist. He not only knows what that message means, he really doesn’t want to tell me. We reach the door and I can’t get inside the privacy of his apartment soon enough. What does he know? Why is he this on edge?
He unlocks the door and I quickly walk inside, rotating to face him. “Tell me that message isn’t about my mother.”
“It’s not.” He shuts the door, locking it, and then shrugs out of his jacket, hanging it on the coatrack a few feet away, and I get the impression that it’s all show. He’s avoiding me. He’s occupying space that he doesn’t want filled with something else.
“That’s it?” I press. “You aren’t going to say anything else?”
He faces me, his legs spread wide in this alpha, controlling stance, hands settling on his lean hips. “It’s not about your mother,” he repeats.
He’s going to make me ask the question. He’s going to make me push. “Then what—”
“It’s about me.” His statement is hard and flat, and it sits between us like a concrete block.
“You?”
He cuts his gaze, looks skyward, and then to my surprise, he walks away, heading toward the kitchen that connects to the living room.
I shrug out of my jacket and hurry after him tossing it on the couch as I pass it by, and continue my pursuit. Eric rounds the island and opens the fridge. I’m standing with my hand on the island counter, facing him when he shuts the door and removes the cap off a beer. He offers it to me. “It’s a good time for a drink.”
I don’t want the damn beer but I take it. He opens the fridge again and grabs another bottle, twisting off the top, as he had for me. Only this time, when the top is gone, he tips back his beer and downs half of it. I set mine down untouched. “Talk to me. You’re scaring me.”
He fixes me in a hooded stare, his handsome face all hard lines and shadows, as he orders softly, “Drink the beer, Harper.” He downs another swallow of his own.
“I don’t want the beer.”
He sets his bottle down with a solid thud, then closes the space between us, a predatory intensity about him, as he drags me to him. “Then what do you want?”
“Answers. I want you to talk to me. I want you to—” He tangles rough fingers into my hair and drags my mouth to his.
“No talking,” he commands. “Not now. Understand?”
“No,” I whisper, his breath warm on my cheek, his body hard against mine. His cock thick against my belly. My sex clenches and my nipples ache. I want him, but this is a distraction. This is him avoiding conversation.
“Eric, please—”
“I like that word,” he murmurs, and then he’s kissing me, and the first taste of him is passion, the next demand, possession, and yes, anger. He’s angry. He’s outright pissed for the first time since the hotel room in New York City when he came to me and wanted to drive me away. Only I don’t think he ever wanted to drive me away. He wanted to drive away the hell of his past. He wanted to drive away the family he would deny if they’d just go away. He’s in that place again. He needs to drive them away, and as much as I want to know what’s triggered him, there’s a shudder that slides through his body, and I understand what it means. He’s on the edge of that cliff the savant in him can lead him to, the numbers in his head beating at his mind and his emotions. Whatever that message I was given says it’s personal to him, really damn personal.
My gorgeous, talented, gifted man needs me right now. He needs this escape and I will not deny him. He turns me and presses me against the refrigerator, my back to the steel surface, his hands sliding over my breasts, cupping them, even as his tongue licks into my mouth. I reach for his shirt, but he’s already caught the hem of mine and it’s over my head in about two seconds. He tosses it and his eyes meet mine, dark shadows in their depths that do nothing to hide the war that rages inside this man.