16: Chapter 0016: Do You Find Me Repulsive?
16: Chapter 0016: Do You Find Me Repulsive?
Elena’s Point Of View “Well…” His breath warmed my temple, his deep voice sending a sudden, sharp shiver straight down my spine.
“You haven’t tried a man like me, princess.” “I don’t have to try a man like you before knowing exactly how infuriating and annoying you are,” I said.
I tried to keep my voice steady, but the heat of his skin against my side was making my thoughts slide around like ice on glass.
Every point where our bodies touched seemed to burn with an intensity that made it difficult to think clearly.
He smirked, his thumb sliding up from my waist to the bare skin of my back, sending another unwanted ripple of static over my nerves.
The touch was deliberate, possessive in a way that should have angered me but instead left me breathless.
He didn’t let go.
Instead, his other hand came up, his long fingers wrapping around my jaw.
With a slow, deliberate pressure, he tilted my head backward, forcing me to look up into the dark smoke of his eyes.
“Is that so?” he murmured, his thumb resting right against the corner of my lower lip.
The pad of his finger was warm, slightly rough, and the intimacy of the gesture made my pulse hammer in my throat.
“Yes,” I breathed, my nod small and tight because his grip was holding me perfectly in place.
I knew I should get up.
I knew I could easily pull back, slide along the leather cushion of the booth, and walk out into the hallway to find Lexy.
I shouldn’t let a complete stranger touch me like this… with this kind of familiar, heavy weight.
But my limbs felt like they were filled with warm lead, unresponsive to the commands my brain was desperately trying to send.
It’s just the alcohol, I told myself.
The gray label, the scotch, the three bottles.
It’s just the liquor.
But even as I thought it, I knew I was lying to myself.
“You talk a very big game for someone who hasn’t tried to pull away once,” he said, his gaze dropping to my mouth.
There was something predatory in the way he looked at me, like a wolf that had cornered its prey and was savoring the moment before the strike.
“I am trying,” I lied.
To prove it, I planted my flat palms against his chest and shoved.
He didn’t budge.
Not even a fraction of an inch.
He felt like a wall of solid stone under my hands, his breathing deep and even while my own chest was heaving.
The muscles beneath his shirt were firm, unyielding, and the realization of just how much stronger he was sent an unwelcome thrill through my body.
Was I always this weak?
I thought, a sudden, sharp sting of humiliation hitting my throat.
Did Graham make me this soft?
Had I become so accustomed to being overlooked, to being dismissed, that I’d lost whatever strength I once possessed?
“You’re not trying very hard,” the man whispered, his eyes dark and heavy as they locked back onto mine.
“In fact, I think you like the pressure.” “You are incredibly full of yourself,” I gasped, my hands curling into the expensive wool of his jacket because my balance felt entirely gone.
The fabric was soft beneath my fingers, tailored to perfection, speaking of wealth and power.
“I want to go back to my friend.” “She’s still on the phone,” he said, his voice a low, soothing purr that vibrated through my chest.
“I can hear her voice from the corridor.
You’ve got time.” “I don’t want to spend it with you.” “Liar.” His fingers tightened slightly on my jaw, his thumb dragging across my lip again, parting them just a fraction.
The gesture was intimate, claiming, and it made my stomach flip.
“It’s been a long while since someone has excited me this much.” I blinked, trying to clear the fog in my head.
The room seemed to tilt slightly, the edges of my vision soft and blurred.
“What is that supposed to mean?” “It means you’re interesting, princess.” The nickname rolled off his tongue like honey, sweet but with an edge of mockery that made my skin prickle.
“What?!” I let out a sharp, incredulous laugh that sounded slightly unhinged even to my own ears.
“Were you expecting a thank you from me?
Should I be honored that the mysterious asshole in the corner finds me entertaining?” His gaze darted down to the plunge of my dress, tracking the movement of my collarbones as I took a ragged breath, before shifting back to my eyes.
The look was appreciative, hungry, and it made me feel simultaneously exposed and powerful.
“I expect something even better.” And then, without warning, he pulled away.
His hands left my jaw and my waist, the sudden absence of his heat leaving me shivering in the draft of the booth.
The loss was so abrupt it felt like being plunged into cold water.
He slid back into his corner, picking up his own fresh glass from the table and taking a slow, quiet sip.
His expression had shifted, becoming unreadable, distant, as though the last few minutes had never happened.
“When you’re done,” he said, his voice completely level again, “you can leave.” I sat there, my chest rising and falling, my skin still tingling where his fingers had been.
The dismissal stung more than it should have, cutting through the alcohol-induced haze with surprising clarity.
Was he rejecting me?
The thought hit me like a splash of freezing water.
My mind immediately spiraled, falling backward into the dark, familiar hole of the last five years.
Am I also repulsive to him?
Is that what Graham thought?
Is that why he looked past me at every dinner, every gala, his eyes sliding over me as though I were furniture, part of the décor rather than his wife?
Am I just some boring, fragile thing that people play with for ten minutes before they get tired and put it away?
The questions clawed at my chest, each one sharper than the last.
The rejection felt heavy, pressing down on my lungs until I couldn’t breathe.
I reached out, my fingers trembling as I grabbed the crystal glass of his scotch again.
The weight of it was solid in my hand, grounding me in the moment.
“I told you not to take that,” he said, his voice dropping into a warning growl that would have intimidated me if I weren’t already drowning in my own humiliation.
“I don’t care what you told me,” I hissed.
I lifted the glass and drank the rest of it, the hot, dark liquid burning my throat, tears pricking the corners of my eyes as I swallowed the heat.
The scotch was stronger than anything I’d had before, and it hit my system like a sledgehammer.
I set the glass down with a heavy clatter, pushed his hand away when he reached for me, and scrambled to stand up.
My heel caught on the edge of the leather cushion.
The room took a violent, sickening lurch to the right.
My knees buckled instantly, and I braced myself for the hard impact of the floor, but it didn’t come.
His arms caught me before I could even scream.
He pulled me straight into his lap, my hip pressing against his thigh, my face burying into the crook of his neck.
He smelled so clean, so solid… like cedar and something darker, more masculine, his heart beating a steady, heavy rhythm against my cheek.
The contrast between his calm and my chaos was jarring.
I didn’t move.
I stayed there, my fingers clutching his shoulders, my breath coming in short, broken hiccups.
For a moment, I let myself be held, let myself feel safe in the arms of a stranger because it had been so long since anyone had held me at all.
“Easy,” he muttered, his hand coming up to stroke the back of my hair, his touch surprisingly gentle now.
The anger and mockery had vanished from his voice, replaced by something softer, almost protective.
“I’ve got you.
Just breathe.” I pulled back just enough to look at him, my chin shaking, my eyes burning with unshed tears.
“Do you find me repulsive?” He froze, his hand stopping in my hair.
“What?” “Am I not good enough?” The words came out raw, stripped of all the sass and the anger, leaving nothing but the bleeding, ugly truth.
My voice cracked on the last word, and I hated myself for it, hated how vulnerable I sounded.
“Is there something wrong with me?
Why does everyone…
why does everyone leave?” The man’s eyes softened, the smoke turning into something deep and fiercely dark.
His hand slid down to the back of my neck, his fingers curling into the skin, holding me steady.
The grip was firm but not painful, anchoring me when I felt like I might float away.
“Why would anyone find you repulsive?” he asked, his voice rough, almost angry.
The emotion in it surprised me, as though my question had genuinely offended him.
“They must be blind, princess.
Anyone who looks at you and walks away is a fucking idiot.” “Then don’t push me away,” I whispered.
I didn’t know what I was doing.
The alcohol was screaming in my veins, the grief was a roaring fire in my chest, and the sheer, desperate need to feel wanted by someone… anyone, was overriding every single ounce of common sense I had left.
There was something about him, some dark, magnetic pull that drew me in, and I couldn’t stop myself.
Maybe I didn’t want to stop myself.
I leaned forward, my palms cupping his jaw, the stubble rough against my skin, and pressed my lips to his.
It wasn’t a soft kiss.
It was desperate, messy, and hot.
I pressed my body into his, my chest flat against his torso, my fingers tangling in his hair to pull him closer.
He let out a low, guttural groan that vibrated through both our bodies, his hand gripping my waist so hard it bruised, his mouth opening under mine as he kissed me back with a fierce, ravenous hunger that made my head spin.
The world narrowed to just this… the heat of his mouth, the strength of his arms, the way he tasted like smoke and sin.
The heat between us flared, thick and suffocating, his tongue tasting of the dark scotch.
Every nerve ending in my body seemed to come alive at once, sparking and burning with an intensity I hadn’t felt in years.
Maybe ever.
But then, he pulled away again.
He caught my wrist, his breathing as heavy and ragged as mine, his chest heaving against my breasts.
The separation felt like a physical wound.
He held my left hand up between us, his thumb tracing the cold metal of the diamond band on my finger.
The ring caught the dim light of the booth, throwing tiny rainbows across his face.
“You’re married,” he said.
It wasn’t a question.
It was a flat, heavy statement, laden with implications I couldn’t quite read.
“Yes,” I breathed, my lips wet, my face flushed as I stared at him.
My heart was pounding so hard I could feel it in my fingertips.
“What?
You hate that?” His eyes grew incredibly dark, his gaze dropping to the ring, then back up to mine.
There was something dangerous in that look, something that made my stomach clench with anticipation rather than fear.
“I don’t care about your marriage or who the hell you’re married to, sweetheart.
I want to know if you want it.” The question hung between us, heavy with meaning.
He wasn’t asking about my marriage.
He was asking about this… about him, about what would happen if I said yes.
I looked at him… at the raw, dangerous promise in his eyes, the heavy grip of his hand on my waist, the absolute certainty of his touch.
In that moment, with the alcohol burning through my veins and the weight of five years of loneliness crushing my chest, I made my choice.
“I won’t regret it,” I said.