“No. I don’t think so.” I gather my purse. “It’s one thing to be in a bad mood, another entirely to treat me like it’s my fault and take it out on me. I won’t be a punching bag, Eli. No matter how much I care about you.”
“Come here, Whitney,” his voice is hoarse, a mix of frustration and melancholy.
“I’m going to Nashville. Give me a call when you manage to tuck Mr. Hyde away, and maybe I’ll answer. Have a good weekend, asshole.”
He stands abruptly, “Whitney—”
I shake my head and manage to keep my tears at bay but can’t keep the shake out of my voice. “I don’t know or want to know this version of you.”
“I’m done.”
“Okay,” Biting my lip to stifle a threatening sob, I turn toward the door.
“I mean, I’m done drinking. Not with you.”
“I’m not sure you mean that.”
He smacks the door closed with his palm as I open it and flicks my purse strap from my shoulder like it’s a nuisance while crowding me.
“Bee,” he says softly, turning me to face him, “don’t go.” The remorse in his tone has my heart aching as he presses his forehead to my shoulder. “I’m sorry. It’s just…”
“Just what?”
“I don’t want to weigh you down with my shit or hold you back from doing the things you want.”
“You haven’t, and I wouldn’t let you.”
“You missed spring break with Alyssa.”
“Because I’ve been there done that, and I have another one next year. I wanted to spend it with you.”
“I don’t know if I can be what you need.”
“I’m not a prisoner, Eli, and I’m not standing here because I want something different. I’m standing here because I want what I’ve got. At least what I think I’ve got.”
“You’ve got me,” he murmurs before slowly kneeling and lifting the hem of my tank, exposing an inch of skin before running his tongue along it.
“Please tell me what’s wrong,” I murmur, running my fingers through his thick hair as he attempts to distract me with his wicked mouth. “Y-you’ve been acting like this all week. I try to touch you, and you refuse to let me.”
His eyes flick up at me as he glides his tongue seductively along the hem of my shorts, leaving a trail of goosebumps. I repeat his name softly as he stares up at me, evident struggle in his tumultuous gaze. He’s fighting something I can’t at all identify.
“Tell me,” he whispers hoarsely, “tell me what you see in me, Whitney.” He runs his palms up and down my hips, his eyes intent as he studies his movement before encasing me in his hold and pressing his forehead into my stomach. Sighing, I grip his jaw and tilt his head up.
“Up until a few minutes ago, I saw an intelligent, good-natured, strong, confident, beautiful, well-mannered gentlemen who has his shit together, who challenges me, who brings out the best in me, and who makes me happy. Eli…Just talk to me. You’re not sleeping well, y-you’re barely eating, and you’re working out like you’re about to compete in Iron Man. I know you’re hurting, or something’s bothering you. You can trust me. You can tell me anything.”
Lost in his thoughts and unsure if he truly heard my words, he tugs my shorts and panties down, and they fall to my ankles.
“I do want you to touch me,” he confesses with an edge to his voice. “I always want to touch you.”
“Eli, you’re upset, we should talk—”
“Let me,” he says hoarsely, emotion shining in his eyes. “Let me make it up to you.” He slides his finger through my wetness, and I close my eyes, gasping as he begins to explore. Intent on his task, I stand in wait, my heart in my throat, blood pulsing through me as his touch electrifies me.
“Fuck,” he murmurs before pulling me into his arms and depositing me on his ottoman. In the next breath, my tank is discarded, and I’m lying naked beneath him, utterly at his mercy. Warm palms spread my thighs as he gazes at my exposed flesh from where he kneels on the floor. Biting his lip, his icy blue eyes flick to mine as he pushes a finger into me, and my back bows.
“So beautiful.” He dips and licks me smoothly before jackhammering his tongue along my clit. Body shuddering, I grip onto the felt of the ottoman as he lazily explores me, the torturous foreplay his typical MO. The night we first got intimate months ago and the weeks after where we spent long hours in bed getting our bodies acquainted seems like a lifetime ago because of the sporadic distances he’s put between us since. Without warning, we can go from inferno hot to ice-cold—the sudden change in temperature baffling and bewildering me. In the last week, he’s exasperated my patience, refusing my sexual advances, his reasoning vague.