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They cut through me like a hot knife through butter. I could practically feel the lust in his tone. That was nice, to be sure, but it wasn’t what tore through my very insides. It was the true care in them. The concern.
He was putting my needs above his own.
Such a simple thing, him wanting me to eat. So benign, which was why it was unfathomable that it caused my eyes to blur, and then worse, leak.
I was not a crier. Embarrassingly, I did it once in a board meeting the first year I was in New York. Not out of fear or sadness but out of anger. That had been my one Achilles’ heelthat had followed me since my early childhood. I rarely cried. It was something my mother commented on. Only when I was really, really angry did I burst into tears. And according to her, when I did cry, I’d be angry and embarrassed at the tears, even as a first grader. It was something I wrestled against but could somehow never get the hang of. Kip and Rowan would tease me about it, which only fueled my need to control my emotional outbursts. I’d curbed them for the most part, but that day in the boardroom, I’d let one escape.
One fucking tear.
And that had opened the floodgates for the men in the room to justify every single stereotype they’d established about women. Too emotional, weak, easily manipulated, controllable, and unworthy of any powerful positions.
Only once did I let that happen. And it had taken me years to craft my reputation, to claw my way to the top, to be the one men feared they might cry in front of instead of the other way around.
Crying meant failure. Which was why I never let myself do it.
And now, inexplicably, I was doing it.
Not just one tear. Countless. In addition to very embarrassing hiccup-type sounds that I was also unable to control.
If Elliot thought this was surprising, he didn’t show it. He didn’t falter, bringing me into his arms, stroking my back and laying his lips on my hair.
The waves of emotion pummeling me didn’t cease. Just as I thought I was catching my breath, it started all over again, the pressure in my chest expanding, more tears trailing down my cheeks, the ragged sobs.
I cried for the pain inside of me. The shame. The regret. The secrets I’d kept from Elliot, the most unforgivable of which being the body in the woods.
Finally, after what felt like a hundred years’ worth of pent-up tears stained my face and soaked the shoulder of Elliot’s shirt, I managed to pull myself together.
Self-conscious for the first time in recorded memory, I wiped at my face.
I was afraid to look up at Elliot and see something in his expression that signified he’d changed his opinion of me. He was attracted to the version of me I presented to the world, presented to myself. Strong, self-assured, confident. He’d seen my ability to submit, but that had never felt like a weakness. At that moment, I was nothing but a sniffling child, sobbing because she was too drunk and couldn’t regulate her emotions.
Embarrassing.
Hence me looking downward, wiping at my tears like some scolded schoolgirl.Scolded schoolgirl. Even in my tear-drenched state, that tickled me a little.
Mental note: Explore Elliot’s willingness for role-play.
Strong fingers nabbed my chin, forcing it upward so I had no choice but to look at him with what were surely red-rimmed eyes, bracing for the hit. Even though everything Elliot had shown me proved he wasn’t like other men, I was still clutching on to my barriers as hard as I could.
Yet again, he showed that he was exactly the man I’d dared hope he was. Nothing but gentle appreciation shined in his eyes.
“I don’t normally do this.” I waved to my face, blinking rapidly. “And I know how to hold my liquor. It’s embarrassing.”
I wanted to look down again, but Elliot had a firm grip on my chin, and his eyes were anchoring me to the spot with such force, I didn’t think I had the power to break free.
“You’re embarrassed.” His tone was even, but the slight inflection at the end of the sentence signified the question in his words.
“No shit, I’m embarrassed,” I snapped, harsher than I wanted to be, but the other option was a breathy sob, and no way was I going to do that. “I blubbered in front of you just because you ordered room service.”
It felt criminal to belittle what I considered to be a sacred act, but I had to in order to save face. I didn’t want to, but I felt suffocated by my own emotions, by the way I was clinging to Elliot, depending on his level stare, the tenor of his voice.
“You cried in front of me because you’ve never had a man you’re sleeping with take care of you,” he countered. “In your entire adult life, you’ve never had a person do something for you without needing to look for the hidden catch.” He cupped my cheek. “There is no catch with me, Calliope.Youare my catch. I want to take care of you because you’re strong and prickly at the world. Because you’ve put yourself in a world where you need to be that way.” He searched my face. “I don’t pretend to understand the world you operated in, but I need you to know that you don’t need that here with me.” His finger ghosted over the crease between my brows that must’ve signified my Botox wearing off and the tension on my face.
“I am not someone you have to protect yourself from, Calliope.” His fingertips trailed over the ridges of my cheekbone. “It would be my great honor to try to protect you. If not from bullets, then from yourself. At least let me take care of you once in a while. It’s a selfish request if you want to get down to it. Because I gain great pleasure from it.” He wiped a fresh tear from the corner of my eye.
My vision swam from the raw emotion radiating off him. So freely given. How I ached to melt into him and everything he promised. To fully surrender to whatever was happening between us. But warning bells sounded in my brain.
If he wasn’t going to hurt me—something I was almost entirely certain of—then I was inevitably going to be the oneto cause the pain. And ordinarily, causing men pain wasn’t something I’d lose an ounce of sleep over. But with Elliot? No.