by Maya Rose
I’m barely hanging on, my knees liquefying, my brain gasping for air, my heart for blood, as he echoes what I’m feeling. And if I was delusional, I would take his lust-filled words at face value. But I’m not. He’s admitting to being attracted to me, but nothing is what it seems with this man. “Yeah, you want it but you won’t do it. So was there a point in that heartfelt speech?”
“That it doesn’t. Fucking. Matter.” He pauses after every word, his lips too close to my face. “This shit between us is immaterial. I’m not trading a fortune for a needless fuck and neither should you. So get over it, grow a spine, and for Christ’s sake, decide. Do you want to go back to the dump you came from or you want to give this a shot? Because know this—if you run now, I’m not coming after you.”
It’s the most he’s said in the last few hours. But he’s also at his most commanding, most precise, every practical word in that ultimatum hitting home. My heart is in my throat when he lays it all out in the open, the pangs in my chest escalating, and not out of fear. I want to tell him to shove it. That he doesn’t know me. Somehow prove him wrong. Give him back a taste of the chaos he incites within me. But most of all, I realize with unnerving and ironic clarity, for some reason I’m not ready to examine yet, I want to let him decide this for us. For me. Just let him...tell me what to do.
“What’s your plan?” I sound like my shoulders feel--weightless.
His mouth opens a tiny inch, and his forehead ripples. He looks angry. Or confounded? What is that look? Then he locks his jaw. “Keep our hands to ourselves, avoid complications, and make nice until Warren buys it. Once he transfers the rights, we stay out of each other’s way.”
That could work. “What’s the catch?”
“You stay out of company operations. I’ll have you sit in meetings and the whole nine yards so Warren gets his kicks. But you cannot interfere. Because Walton hotels is mine. You do this--you and your mother will never have to worry about money again.”
Holy freaking shit—he’s giving me a carte blanche. I don’t have to jump over hoops for him or my father. And still choose to do something I want with my life—once I figure out what. It’s ideal. We both get what we want. But a part of me bristles. Maybe because of the way he says mine. About a damn job. “That’s not what daddy dearest said.”
“And you want to do what he said?”
God, no. And Eli’s aware of it. “Fine. But then you stay out of my life. I do what I want. You don’t get to run it.”
He pushes himself off the wall and stands, empty space stretching between us. I don’t want to go into the horrifying urge to pull him back.
“Works for me one hundred percent.” He says, running his hands through his hair.
Maybe I can rip out the perfectly coiffed strands, so no other woman can ever touch them again. I affix my fists to the wall, regretting this dumb shit already. “What now? Give him the joyous news?” Although the thought of facing my father again in that hideous room is making me gag.
But his lips form a vicious line, and he skirts my eyes. And I don’t think it’s because he’s reaching for his phone. “I think we’ve both had enough of him for one day.” What is that edge in him? “I’ll text him that I’m taking you home.”
Home? What? Oh crap, how could I forget? Freak me sideways, he can't actually mean to...and now I’m afraid to ask.
Then I don’t have to.
“There’s no way around that suggestion, Ms Jenning. We’re roomies till we complete Warren’s little quest of partnership.”
Chapter 6
Eli
◆◆◆
This is a shitty inconvenience. Nobody, man or woman, has fucked with my mind the way she is. She’s nineteen. Fucking nineteen. Three years younger than Scotty. I can’t decide if she’s too young or too old for her age. And I’m torn between running as far away from her as I can, or sticking by her side 24/7, or spending every waking moment hunting down every man or beast who has this hellcat scrambling for the goddamn band on her wrist. Starting with her father. First he treats her like she’s a child who can’t make her own decisions. Like she hasn’t been doing exactly that all her life, thank you very much, because of his love for a vindictive woman. Then when she bails because he bullied her to the goddamn moon, he has the fucking audacity to strong-arm me instead?
Figure out a way to get her on board or find yourself another job. Don’t think for a second that I won’t do it, Eli.
The man was throwing threats a dime a dozen today. I would have doubted his mental acumen to make these decisions had I not seen him do this to other people. It’s a bitch being on the receiving side.
“I can’t live with you.” Ariel announces, just when I think we finally have an agreement.
Damn it, can she not do this? Where does she think she’s going to go? But I will not be like the other men she’s clearly used to, bullying her. So I ask, fixing my eyes on her, while my insides scream not to. Because pushing her has worked so far, but how long before it doesn’t? “Because?”
“You don’t know why? Really? After we just had a conversation about leaking cocks and pussies?” Fucking God, that mouth. And she doesn’t know the half of it. The smutty fantasies my mind has been making up. Taking her against the wall is the tamest one. “There has to be some other way.” She finishes.
She’s doing that thing again. Looking at me for direction. Five years of being the de-facto boss, and nobody’s ever asked me this easily. What’s your plan? I still have to muscle my way into decisions. And now this. But for this one, she needs to get there herself.
“I’m all ears. Is there somebody else you want to live with?” Per the PI, she has only one sort of close friend. A stripper at that club. Stella? Stacy? No. Stephanie. But that woman is barely scraping by with an unemployed husband and a three year old. So I add that something extra for her to think about. “Or you could live here?”
“No!” She gasp-exclaims angrily at the idea. “I...I can live in one of his hotels.”
Yes she can. And no, she fucking can’t. I’m all over the goddamn place. “Again—is this really a talk you want to have with Warren? It’s just two months. You get your own room. I’m hardly ever in. And I told you--I’m not losing all of this for a...”
“Fuck. Yeah I got it.” Goddamn her eyes can light up a match with that stare. But I meant every word. I have my priorities. She has her...age, and God knows what else. My hormones can go take a hike. I can look for other outlets. It’s not like I don’t have choices there. The only choice I don’t have is with Warren and his demented plans. She looks away, thumb playing with her lips again, while I ride out her contemplation. Thankfully, it doesn’t last long. “Fine.” She says, looking back at me. “Lead the way, big guy.”
Xavier drives up the car for us in minutes. At some point I’m going to have to explain her presence to him, but right now I just want to leave this house that is begging for a wrecking ball.
It’s a wordless drive to my condo in Greenwich Village. We’re both zealously focused outside our respective windows. I don’t know what to say to her. And Ariel’s not breaking the lull this time. I almost wish she would. I don’t want to be alone with my thoughts. I don’t want to be alone at all. It’s enigmatic. My nerves are frayed. After a day like today, solitude should be all I want. I should not itch with curiosity, wondering what her next words might be. What am I—starved for conversation now? I’ve not been half this interested in even what Scotty--oh shit. Scotty. I didn’t tell her about a second guy living with me. “Listen, before we--”
Ah Jesus.
How the hell can she possibly...here? Now? I could take her anywhere I want. Do whatever I want. Touch her wherever...seek help, you fucking pervert.
Hands wrapped around herself, head resting against the pane, straight auburn hair strewn over her cheek and my jacket, she’s fallen asleep. I hate that her hair and eyes change colors like that on me. Streams of light keep playing on her face as the car speeds. She’
s really fucking stunning. Knows it too, but there’s no accompanying vanity that I can detect. Almost like she forgets it until someone like me stares too long. In fact, if I had to guess, it’s almost as if she tries to forget harder than she does to remember. My jacket splits open on her thighs, and yeah, now I’m that guy who lecherously ogles a barely legal girl’s unclothed body parts while she sleeps.
This is all wrong. I want to peel her open, layer by layer. Or maybe cover her so she’s warm, I don’t know. I want to ditch her...but not just yet. And when she doesn’t wake up as we pull inside the garage, I think about shaking her awake. Or yell. Or have Xavier honk. Then I watch a frown come calling on her forehead, and she shifts like she’s uncomfortable. A knot forms in my chest, and while her guard is down, mine’s suddenly up.
Wake her up. Wake. Her. Up.
I don’t recognize the man that slips his arm under her neck, scooping her close. But the one that stoops to prop the other arm under her knees--that asshole is now dead to me. I’m surprised when Xavier opens her door instead of mine. But I’m also ready. Her head lolls against my chest when I lift her and get out stealthily like I’m on a covert mission. I’m grateful, more than ever, for the private elevator that goes up to my floor. The only penthouse suite in the building. I don’t have to use the regular elevators, or greet the overfamiliar old man at the reception. I wonder what he might think of me carrying home a seemingly passed out half dressed teen. Who stirs, before snuggling her face deeper into my front. It doesn’t mean anything. How perfectly she fits in my arms. I’m a well built man. This could be any average sized woman.
I gingerly input the code to the main door, twist the handle with my wrist without moving the rest of my arm, and then nudge it open with the back of my shoulder. It is only when I lay her down on the bed in one of the guestrooms and pull a blanket over her, that the panic truly starts to set in. A woman. This woman, around whom I seem to have zero impulse control. In my condo. Living, breathing, eating, sleeping, showering, roaming...what are the rules? Give her the access code so she can come and go as she pleases? Let her redecorate this room? I’m not allowed to bring my sleep buddies home--but if she wants to bring hers? Guys she dates? Friends from the jobs she won’t go back to? Friends from college that she will start? Just what are the fucking rules????
Scotty. He’ll know. He has a rule for everything. I can’t ask him when he got home. I can never go into his room. If his phone buzzes when he’s not around, I can’t pick it up or peek at the message. If I’m having people over, I have to give him a heads up. Although that one’s a hypothetical.
I rush out of the room and knock on his door without pausing to consider the 2am time. Or the fact that he’s not going to want to talk to me. He never has--why is this any different? I wait, but he doesn’t answer. Shit, is he a heavy sleeper? Or not home? Is he supposed to be out traveling for a competition or something? How do I not know? How do I not know anything about him? I call him then, but it rings all the way through and then goes to voicemail. I message him, but even I’m not hopeful about him replying. Trashing caution and his rule, I finally open his door. But his bed’s empty. A quick sweep tells me so is his room. Great. I don’t know where he is or when he’s coming back. Or whether? Fuck.
I block out for a few minutes, wracking my brain to choose between staying for her to wake up, or hightail the hell out. I can’t. I can’t stay. Not this night. I take the elevator six floors down to Selena’s floor. I’ve never liked her living in the same building—it’s almost too convenient to reach her. But today I’m grasping at straws.
A shitstorm in my head, I ring her bell. And when she opens in under two minutes, I grab her face and go straight for her lips. Even with the element of surprise, she responds the way she always does. Practiced and smooth. She goes straight to it, her hands pulling me inside and warring with my belt. She takes less time to remove it than I usually do. Then her hands wrap around my hard length--fuck, she frees it like she’s being timed--and she starts stroking me like she wants to jerk me off right there. She’s doing everything right. Soft lips. Eager hands. Husky murmurs.
“Put your fat cock inside me, big guy.”
Big guy. Something about the term makes my pulse quicken and I rip away, so I can spin her and clap her front against the wall. She still doesn’t let go of me, hand twisted behind her, squeezing at the exact place she knows I like. I return the favor, kneading her breasts, working her nipples. No bra. That’s good. But my senses are thrown off, and I’m no longer entirely controlling what my palm is doing. She feels too slim. Not as much as my hands are clamoring for. And her hair. Black. Why don’t my eyes like it?
“Ah...fuck...El…”
Can she NOT call me that? Spurred, I spread her legs with one of mine, pull her panties down and clutch her mound, before slipping two thick fingers inside her pussy lips. I start moving them in and out, hustling to get her there. She shudders and says something dirty. She’s wet. I’m hard. But I’m...it’s...fuck...why is this so...mechanical? So banal? So...less? It’s not working. I’m frustrated. Dissatisfied. Heavy but empty.
“Gooooodddd...fuck me El...I--”
“Shut up.” The voice is just...awry. Too...ordinary. It’s making me so mad. “Don’t fucking talk.”
She doesn’t, and I amp up my finger thrusts. Flicking her clit at the same time.
“El, I don’t want to come like--”
“I said no talking.” I hiss in her ear. Damn it, why is this taking so long? And why isn’t it feeling half as good as it did when--
“But I want to come when you’re inside--”
“Shut your goddamn mouth!” I yell, as my swollen tip rubs up against her ass cheek, and add a third finger inside her pussy.
“Stop.”
I hear her, but my fingers don’t immediately get a signal. Why is she not screaming in pleasure already? What am I doing wrong? I dig a finger deeper and I’m sure I’m touching that spot that--
“Eli, STOP!”
She wheels around to face me, and I don’t see the hard shove coming. She pushes with force, and with distance between us, I have no choice but to look at her. Commercial worthy hair. Grey eyes. Long legs. Great tits. Beautiful alabaster skin with a face that can launch a fleet of ships. A fluttery silk knee length nightie molds her everywhere it should. She works out a ton and it shows. And I’m...I...I don’t want it. Any of it. I don’t want her. I’m still erect, but I have no desire to touch her, let alone stick any part of me inside her. Sex. Just sex. My cock should be taking the lead. Why is my brain getting in the middle of this?
“What the hell is going on with you?” She bursts out angrily.
“I thought you like it rough.” I mutter, in denial of how relieved I am that she stopped it. Because I’m now doubtful if I could have followed through on getting either of us off.
She narrows her eyes. “You can’t look at me when you’re fucking me every which way, or take off your clothes, or do oral on your knees--fine, I get it. You’re allowed weird hang-ups. But you cannot be the goddamn asshole using me to get over your shit. I’m not your fucking therapist.”
Then she stops leaning on the wall for support. Lifts her arms, gathers all her hair, and some weird sleight of hand later, it’s all tied in a neat slick ponytail. Not a hair out of place.
And it comes crashing to me.
My body warms up like fire, which is odd, because my blood seems to have iced entirely. I fuck when I want to forget. That’s my coping mechanism. My escape. And now I can’t fuck because I can’t forget? Her. The goddamn unruly burnt orange hair that I want to pull and pull till she rolls those hazel eyes to the back of her head, and fucking begs for my cock in her. In that voice that can give a dead man a hard-on. Oh God. Oh fuck. She won’t quit me. She’s under my skin. And she literally will be, starting morning.
“El...” Selena’s tone is speculative, anger ebbing. “...what did Warren say?”
Warren. Goddamn Warren. I’m abs
urdly standing there, my shaft swinging with its own weight. I bend and pull up my boxers and pants. Then I force my eyes on Selena’s. Shit, she had to physically get me off her to stop me. What did I do to her? “Fuck, I’m sorry--did I hurt you?”
“Yes, you killed my boner.” Her face scrunches like she’s annoyed. “Don’t patronize me--you know I can take anything you have to give. As long as it’s about me. Now spill. What the hell happened?”
I have to get it out. I need to apply my mind to things that count. So I summarize it for her. What Warren wants. Leaving out the parts that I can’t get over. The way my new houseguest is. The way I am around her. Because it’s not going to last. Or that we kissed and talked about fucking. Because it’s never going to happen again.
“So hang on—she’s fine with what you offered her?” She asks when I’m done. “She gets money as long as she needs it and you get Walton hotels?”
That sounds shady as fuck. “I guess. We didn’t talk specifics.”
“What specifics?”
“I don’t fucking know, Selena...how much money...how often...how long...that sort of thing...” I walk to her kitchen to grab a can of soda. Then I remember she’s into the whole organic green juice revolution. There are bottles of it everywhere in her fridge. I slam the door and turn to face her. “Are you going wholesale with this shit?”
“So let’s hash out the specifics.” She says and I don’t know what that means.
“What?” I go with guzzling a whole glass of water, and the weakass taste doesn’t make anything better.
“You could have just led with that, dickhead, instead of going caveman.”
“What?” I turn and repeat, and I’m genuinely concerned for my brain’s dry spell with words today.
