Page 27 of Elijah’s Whim

Chapter Seven

Elijah

My God. If I thought her confidence was like doing shots of a potent aphrodisiac, her trepidation was like mainlining the stuff. Hannah tried to tug her surprisingly strong hand from mine, but I wouldn’t surrender a millimeter of my hold.

“Elijah. Wait. What are you going to do?” She darted her gaze around the cavernous great room. The light spilling into the space from the kitchen was just enough to allow me to keep tabs on her expression.

“Elijah!”

My next action happened in one fluid motion so she couldn’t protest. Hearing the panicky edge in her voice sharpen to a dangerous point told me what to expect when I spun to face her. My senses didn’t fail me—it was a rare occurrence when they did. All in one move, I pivoted to face her, dropped her hand from my grasp, stepped right into her personal space she normally guarded like a Rottweiler, and folded her into my body with my long arms.

“I was teasing you, beautiful.” I pressed my lips to the side of her head and just stood there, breathing her in. She was intoxicating and invigorating in the same breath. The clean, almond scent of her expensive salon shampoo mixed with her body’s perfect natural essence. The resulting combination was dizzying, and I filled my nose with one hit after another. With our height difference, I could enjoy her bouquet, and no one was the wiser. But in fairness to the trembling woman in my clutches, I had to remind myself why I was being allowed to hold her so freely and so…oh, yeah…

Because I’m an asshole!

Hannah’s heart jackhammered in her chest, and I could feel its wild cadence where her body pressed against mine. The problem, however, was her erratic pulse wasn’t from lust or excitement like I’d fantasized about in that quick minute before the intended fun turned into a shit show.

But this didn’t add up. The stunning, normally independent and feisty woman in my arms was trembling like she was terrified. Even if she didn’t know what I was talking about with the Shibari comment, should that really have sent her into a spiral like the one she was trying to recover from?

She was still panting in rapid, shallow breaths. In the glowing light from the adjacent kitchen, I could see the fine sheen of perspiration on her flawless skin. I ushered her over to the tufted velvet sofa and nudged her to sit. I flipped on the antique brass lamp on the end table so the corner of the room was bathed in a warm amber glow.

Hannah hadn’t moved from where I’d pushed her to sit on the cushion. She hadn’t relaxed into the softness of the sofa’s high back, nor had she scooted to the end to nestle into the coveted corner spot against the high back on one side and the arm rest on the other. Instead, she was sitting there as though she were waiting her turn outside the principal’s office and her chair was covered with fire ants.

I took the corner spot and spoke quietly. “Hannah, can I hold you? Please. Let me comfort you.”

There wasn’t a scenario that made me more uncomfortable than causing distress or discomfort to a woman—unless that was expressly the goal of our joining. I needed to fix this. So often, I’d seen my mother suffer at the hands of that monster she married—my father—that it became one of my own scars that I avoided examining at any extent necessary. I was sure my therapist would be so proud that I was connecting this current situation with Hannah and the overwhelming repairman compulsion I was feeling. And look at me! I drew the parallel all on my own! It only took seven years of therapy to get here.

“Beautiful girl,” I crooned and stroked hair away from her face. A fine sheen of sweat dampened her curtain of blond hair and glued it to her forehead. The effect was probably something she appreciated at the moment because she could hide in the depths, but I wasn’t having any of that plan. But when I took a second pass at her hair to clear it from her face, she recoiled as if I burned her.

“Hannah,” I said quietly but firmly, “I was just playing around. What is this all about? Help me understand so this doesn’t happen again.”

“Just…minute,” she breathed harshly through the two words, making me think others had been lost in her exhalations.

I’d seen enough people suffer through anxiety attacks in my life to recognize the signs. I sat back a few inches and let fresh air envelop her. I tried to give her the space she needed, but it was taking every bit of effort I could dredge up.

“Tell me how to help, baby. Touch or no?”

Goddammit. Useless was not an outfit that suited me—no matter the season.

“Not…yet…please.”

Incrementally, her body began to relax beside mine, and I began to loosen the vise grip I had on my phone, which I had in case I needed to call 9-1-1, but now that I knew she’d be okay, I set it beside me on the sofa. No matter how many times I saw someone go through something like this, it frightened me.

“Can I get you some water, baby?” I asked gently.

“Yes, please,” she replied with an overly bright, forced smile.

“Don’t do that,” I said with a frown, and before she could defend the bullshit, I strode from the room to get her a bottle of water. I was back in moments with two bottles and handed her the one I already opened.

“Thank you.”

“For what, exactly? Causing you to have an anxiety attack? Oh yes, you’re welcome.” I chugged back half the bottle I saved for myself before I could say anything else.

“Elijah, please don’t be mad at me. Sometimes this just—”

I scrubbed my open palm down my face but stopped halfway when I realized she was midstride an apology. “I should be apologizing to you, not the other way around. For pushing you in the first place. I’m such a bastard.”

Hannah went to say something, but I whirled on her, again not keeping my frustration in check when I saw the phony cheerful mask she slid on.