I flash him a flirtatious look through my thick bevy of dark lashes and smirk. “You tell me all the time, love.” He does too. Almost every night before we go to bed. He also tells me that I shouldn’t wear it all, but that’s his opinion. Growing up, Daddy always said that only harlots wore make-up so I was never allowed to wear it. Now that I’m able to, I like to indulge in painting my face up a little. I don’t wear much, but still.
There’s a hint of desire flickering in his gold eyes and he leans in closer, his lips fluttering overtop of mine. He’s shirtless and my fingers glide across his abs, his body heat burning my fingertips before traveling to the other parts of my body and setting me on fire.
My hands slip away from his abdomen and rest just above his hips. “Come closer,” I whisper.
Elijah smirks greedily then places both hands on my inner thighs before pressing his body against mine. “Is this close enough, Mrs. Watson?”
Wrapping my arms around his back, I move forward, my lips a breath away from his ear. “No.”
With that, he lifts my night dress, positions his right hand on the small of my back, holding me into a half lying down, half upright position before assaulting my mouth with mind-numbing twirls of his tongue against mine. His fingers twist through my raven locks and he pants against my ear.
In one swift motion, he grabs me from underneath my thighs, pulls me closer until I’m so close that our bodies are almost welded together. I stare into his eyes, and I’ve had moments where I’ve felt like I could swim in his seas of honey for an eternity. I’ve had days where stolen glances between us were all I could think about. And I’ve had nights when I’d lie alone in bed yearning for him.
He works a lot. I hate that he’s on the night shift. So when he have time together for intimate moments like this, I cherish them.
I hold them close to my heart.
I implant them into my mind, weighing them down with chains so they won’t move.
“I want you,” he whispers as his warm breath travels down the back of my neck.
I shiver out of pleasure, want, and delight. “You say that a lot.” The words leave my throat in a light, raspy cluster.
“Well, it’s true.”
I’m captivated by the fact that he knows how to say all the right things.
Touch me in all the right ways.
Kiss me like he’s dehydrated and I’m the glass of water he needs to quench his thirst.
Elijah kisses my neck and I throw my head back, swept up in the passionate moment between us. I close my eyes and bite my bottom lip as he leaves a trail of kisses from my neck to my collar bone.
“I love you,” I tell him, but my words come out strained. “I love you,” I say a second time, but the words come out all jumbled together.
“Enough talking.” He silences me with his lips on mine.
And within seconds were lost in a sea of entangled limbs, breathless pants, and thrusting hips.
Chapter Six
~After~
If the Oakhill Asylum was an arm, fleshy and layered with muscle, veins, and fat, the minute someone took a scalpel to it and sliced it open with intent and purpose they’d notice something odd about the blood that seeped out of it.
It wouldn’t be red.
Red is the color of passion, the color of life.
It is illustrious.
And flowing.
So if Oakhill were an arm it wouldn’t bleed red.
It would bleed black.
A never-ending, lonely abyss of a color that only means one thing in my book…