Chapter 11: The Chair

Libby's POV

Eli took my stitches out on a Thursday night, at his kitchen table, with a pair of tiny scissors and a lamp.

It was ten days since the broken pitcher.

"This might pull," he said.

"I'm a nurse."

"That's why I said might."

He bent over my palm with his dark head tilted close to mine.

His breath moved the hair at my temple.

Every tug of the thread ran straight up my arm and down the middle of my body.

When the last stitch came free, he didn't let go.

He turned my hand over, ran his thumb along the fresh pink seam, and then, very slowly, he pressed his mouth to the center of it.

My breath stopped.

"Eli."

"Is that okay?"

"It's my hand."

"It's very good at being a hand."

I laughed, and I stood, and I pulled him up with me.

We didn't make it to the bedroom.

There was a leather armchair by the window, old and deep, and he sat in it because I put him there.

I stood in front of him and took my sweater off, and then my bra.

He looked, with the lamp on one side of his face and a muscle jumping in his jaw.

"Come here," he said, rough.

I straddled his lap, my knees on either side of his thighs, and put my hands in his hair.

His mouth found my breast.

He took his time.

He licked and sucked until I was pushing down against him, restless and aching.

Then he dragged his teeth very lightly over my nipple, and I gasped his name.

His hand slid down the back of my jeans and gripped my ass.

I tried to get my zipper open and he caught my wrist.

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