Page 8 of Elijah’s Whim

“Hmmm?”

“Drying off isn’t a team sport. I think I can manage.”

“Is there a reason you don’t want me to see your body? Are you covered in tattoos?” he asked while walking toward the foot of the tub.

“No, of course not. I don’t have a single one, actually.”

“I didn’t think a good girl like you would.” Casually, he reached into the water and pulled the rubber stopper out of the drain. “Now what will you do? Let me wrap you in this towel, or let the water drain away completely and go get your own towel?”

“Get out!” I shouted. He had to go and ruin things with his high-handedness. “You’re such a jerk.”

“Not a chance, beautiful. And if you’d let your damn guard down, you’d see I’m the furthest thing from a jerk. Come.”

“I don’t trust men like you. Come over here at least. I don’t want to parade across the room. I can get my own towel at that point.”

Well, at least I was still mostly covered in soap suds. So, on nervous legs, I stood and got out of the tub. Elijah steadied me so I wouldn’t slip on the wet tile, and all I could think about was how clumsy I must have looked climbing over the high wall of the tub. He probably just had a better view of my vagina than my lady parts doctor got during my annual exam.

I buried my face in my palms and waited for the whole thing to just be over. Christ, I’d never been so embarrassed in my life. I’d bet his nightly visitors never felt this awkward. Why was he putting me through this?

With a victorious grin on his lips, he came close enough that I could smell his intoxicating scent, made even more potent by the humidity in the bathroom. His strong hands felt so capable as he swaddled me in the terry cloth. But that damn ache in my shoulders was right back where it started from the stress of having to bare myself to him.

This was ridiculous. I was being ridiculous. With one hand, I took the ends of the towel, and with the opposite, I kneaded the tense muscle in my shoulder. “Umm, thanks.” I felt as awkward as I did on my parents’ front doorstep junior year of high school when Connor Billings brought me home from my first date and moved in for a good-night kiss.

Thumbing over my sore shoulder, I said, “I think I’m just going to head to bed after all. I guess I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“Come.” Elijah took my hand and towed me along behind him into the bedroom.

“I’m not your pet. Stop saying that to me.” I scowled and tried to pull my hand free.

He turned to face me, and I swear on my cat, Molly, in heaven, with just the bedside lamp lit behind him, he looked like a damn angel. The man was that arrestingly handsome.

“Actually, beautiful is what you are. And I’ve not been doing a very good job taking care of you. That’s the fifth time I’ve seen you rub your shoulder since I’ve been home, and it’s unacceptable. Now, since we haven’t gotten to know each other in all the best ways yet”—he playfully waggled his eyebrows—“I will let you decide if you want me to rub the knot out of your shoulder while wearing the towel or not.”

Even though it would likely get me in trouble—and that thought had me inwardly rolling my eyes—I couldn’t stop the comment I made next. “What’s wrong with what you have on?”

Faster than I could track, he reached forward and snatched the towel right off me.

“Without. Perfect. On the bed, beautiful. Get comfortable facedown while I get some supplies.”

While he strode from the room after issuing his set of instructions, I snatched the throw off the foot of my bed and held it to my chest. Although what did it matter at this point? He’d already seen my whole package. Lock, stock, and barrel, as my father and his gun club buddies would say.

I guessed the upside was he didn’t run screaming from the room. At the same time, this dude had had a female visitor every night since I’d been staying here. I couldn’t be sure if it was the same female or not. It wasn’t as though he brought them by my room first for my approval before having his way with them. Point being, he’d seen his share of tits and asses by now. What difference was one more set going to make?

“Ms. Farsey…” His low rumble startled me from my own musings, and I jumped when he said my name with such wicked promise. Warm breath fanned across the back of my neck as he spoke the rest of his question.

“Did you do well at Le Cordon Bleu?”

“When measured by wha-what?” I asked, having learned quickly not to assume anything where Elijah Banks was concerned. Was he talking about traditional letter grades?

“You don’t follow directions very well for a woman as bright as you are. I can’t make sense of that. Are you defying me personally or this arrangement you agreed to?”

I spun to look at him face-to-face. If I was going to deny his accusation, I wanted to do it head on. “No. Neither. That’s not it at all.”

“On. The. Bed.”

Lifting one knee to the mattress, I turned back to give one last feeble protest and was met with a delicious, dominant man instead.

“Now.”

“All right, all right. Jeez Louise. You can be so bossy.”

“Oh, you haven’t seen bossy, baby. But you will. Give it time.”