Chapter 8: Elevator

Cillian stepped into the elevator, and the doors slid shut behind him.

We rode up alone, with our reflections in the brass.

"That was a lot," I said.

"Yes."

"You said it in front of three hundred people."

"I said it in front of one," said Cillian. "The rest were in the way."

My back was against the wall, and he didn't touch me.

He stood two feet off with his hands at his sides and his eyes dark.

"If you want me to go, say so," he said. "I'll take the stairs."

"We're fourteen floors up."

"I run stairs for a living."

I laughed, and it came out shaky.

"I have rules," I said.

"Tell me."

"One. Not at the arena. I work there."

"Fine."

"Two. You call me Annette. Not Nettie. Never Nettie."

"Fine."

"Three. If I want to leave, I leave, and you don't ask why."

He was quiet for a second.

"The third one is hard," he said.

"Those are the terms."

"Then I'll take them."

The elevator opened on the penthouse hall.

I walked out, and he followed me, and I stopped at the door of the guest room with my hand on the handle.

"Annette," he said behind me.

I turned around, took hold of his shirt in both hands, and pulled his mouth down onto mine.

He made a low sound in his chest.

His hands went into my hair, and the clip fell out and hit the floor.

He kissed me, with a slow, hungry heat that left me clinging to him.

He lifted me by the thighs and my glasses went crooked on my nose.

He took them off and set them on the hall table with a care that undid me more than anything.

Then he carried me through the door and put me down on the bed.

"Tell me what you want," he said.

"You. Now."

"Be specific."

"I want your mouth on me."

He knelt on the floor beside the bed.

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