EB Chapter 64 Part 2
Eva
"But sometimes," I said, my voice dropping, "the most exquisite moments arise from precisely those complications." My fingers unbuttoned the top button of his shirt, then the next. The pristine white fabric parted, revealing the smooth skin of his chest, the faint shadow of muscle beneath. My touch was light, deliberate.
He watched my hands, his gaze intense, possessive. "What are you trying to find, Eva?"
"A crack," I confessed, my voice barely audible. "A moment where the order breaks. Just a little." I leaned closer still, my body pressed against his desk, against him. The silk of my robe whispered against his shirt, a subtle friction. "I want to see what happens when the dam breaks."
His hand came up, slow and deliberate, resting on my hip, then pulling me closer, until I was practically in his lap, the desk a barrier that no longer seemed to exist. His fingers splayed, the warmth of his palm a brand through the thin silk.
"And what if it doesn't crack?" His voice was rough now, strained.
"Then I'll keep pushing," I breathed, my lips hovering inches from his. "Until it does."
I tilted my head, my eyes holding his, a silent challenge in the depths of them. He was so close, his scent – a mix of old books, something akin to ozone, and his unique vampiric essence – enveloped me. The air around us thrummed, heavy with unspoken desires. His self-control, usually an impenetrable fortress, felt like a straining wall.
His gaze dropped to my lips, lingering there. I felt the heat radiate from his hand on my hip, the subtle pressure. He was a master of restraint, a connoisseur of calculated moves. This, however, felt uncalculated, raw.
"You are relentless," he murmured, a hint of admiration, even surrender, in his tone.
"Only when it matters," I replied, my voice a soft purr. I reached up, cupping his face in my hands, my thumbs caressing his cheekbones. His skin was smooth, cool beneath my touch, but the heat emanating from his eyes, from the depths of his being, was undeniable.
His breath hitched. He closed his eyes for a brief moment, a flicker of something raw and intense crossing his features – something that wasn't order, wasn't logic, but pure, unadulterated need. It was a crack. A hairline fracture in his carefully constructed composure.
"Eva," he breathed, a plea, a warning, a desperate desire. His hands moved, spanning my waist, his grip tightening. He pulled me over the desk, over the open book, until my body was fully against his, the hard planes of his chest pressing against my breasts, the heat of him seeping into me.
My legs parted, straddling his lap, the silk of my robe riding up my thighs. I could feel the hard ridge of him beneath me, a stark testament to his struggle. His eyes flew open, wide and dark, as if the sheer intimacy of the contact had startled him. His control was slipping.
"This is not…logical," he said, his voice husky, betraying the very logic he clung to.
"Not everything has to be," I whispered, my hips rocking almost imperceptibly, a slow, deliberate grind that elicited a sharp gasp from him. His fingers bit into my sides, holding me still, but his eyes, no longer cool and analytical, were blazing. They devoured me, stripped away my layers, saw something beyond the physical.
He was losing the fight. The careful lines of his composure were blurring. His gaze was no longer distant or thoughtful, but hot, feral.
"What do you want from me?" he demanded, his voice a low growl, utterly unlike his usual modulated tones.
"Everything," I answered, leaning in, my mouth finding the pulse point at the base of his throat. I felt the rapid beat against my lips, a frantic drum against my skin. "Your control. Your carefully constructed walls. I want to see them crumble, Eric." My tongue flicked, tasting the faint saltiness of his skin.
A profound shiver ran through him, a full-body tremor. His hands, still gripping my waist, tightened to the point of pain, but I barely registered it. His head fell back against the high back of the chair, his throat exposed, a silent invitation. He was offering me the very thing he guarded most fiercely: his vulnerability.
"Eva," he groaned, his voice ragged, utterly devoid of his characteristic composure. "You're playing with fire."
"I am the fire," I breathed against his skin. My fingers tangled deeper in his hair, pulling gently, tilting his head further back, exposing the elegant line of his neck, the sharp angle of his jaw. His eyes were closed again, his face a mask of exquisite torment. He was teetering on the brink.
This was the break. Not a shattering, but a surrender. A quiet, desperate admission that his control was no match for the force I embodied.
My lips found his, a soft, exploratory press. He responded instantly, his mouth opening under mine, hungry and desperate. His arms wrapped around me, pulling me impossibly close, crushing me against him. The kiss was a revelation, not the refined touch I expected, but a tempest of unleashed passion. His tongue tangled with mine, exploring, demanding, conquering. It was an act of both submission and dominance, a paradox that thrilled me to my core.
His hand left my waist, sliding down my leg, beneath the silk of my robe, to the curve of my calf, then higher, tracing the line of my inner thigh. His touch was hesitant at first, then bolder, possessive. My breath hitched in my throat, a reciprocal gasp.
He broke the kiss, pulling back just an inch, his eyes still closed, chest heaving. "You will be the death of me," he whispered, his voice raw, hoarse, a complete departure from his usual calm.
I leaned back, just enough to see his face, flushed and undone. His shirt was rumpled, his hair disheveled, a single strand falling across his forehead. He looked wild, untamed. He looked utterly broken.
A triumphant warmth spread through my chest, but I kept my face neutral. I had wanted a break, and he had delivered. But there were others.
"Perhaps," I said, my voice soft, but firm. I untangled my fingers from his hair, pulled my hand from his thigh, and slowly, deliberately, slid off his lap, back to the floor. The coolness of the wood beneath my feet was a stark contrast to the heat of his body.
His eyes snapped open, blazing with a mix of confusion, frustration, and raw desire. He reached out, his hand grasping for me, but I stepped back, just out of his reach.
"Where are you going?" he demanded, his voice still ragged. The logical, ordered Eric was gone, replaced by this desperate, unmasked creature.
I smiled, a slow, lingering smile that promised both satisfaction and more torment. "To shower. I smell of old books." I paused at the doorway, turning to face him. He sat there, a picture of elegant disarray, his breathing still heavy. His eyes, still dilated, fixed on me with an intensity that sent shivers down my spine.
"Enjoy your day, Eric," I said, my voice light, almost dismissive. "Try to put your thoughts in order." I will now get a glimpse of what they had been plotting. If I get enough glimpses, I can piece them together like a puzzle.
I left him there, the silence of the library swallowing my retreating footsteps. The scent of his unleashed desire, thick and heady, still clung to my skin. One down. Five more to go. Brandon next. He relished control, too, but his was a different kind of arrogance. He would be an altogether different challenge. I couldn't wait.