by Maya Rose
“Why? Why is it wrong when we both want it?”
“Because you deserve better!!” He roars. “You deserve a man who wants to more than just fuck you once in a goddamn bathroom!!”
I want to kiss him till his lips bleed. If he is going to blow me off, that’s the best he can come up with? “Stop patronizing me!! Like I’m some horny teenager who doesn’t know what’s good for her!!”
“I’m not—“ His tone starts high, laced with frustration. But he stops himself, and inhales, his nostrils expanding again. Then he squeezes his eyes shut and opens them, before he blows slowly out. When he finally talks, his tone is even. “I’m telling you, Ms Jenning, that if you want men to treat you right, make them earn what you give them.”
Goosebumps invade my arms because God, the man has a way with words. I can’t even tell if he’s bullshitting or being serious right now. “So is that what you’re going to do now? Earn this?”
I wish I hadn’t asked that. He’s still furious, but it’s almost in a rigid, gloomy way. “I’m not the man you need, Ariel.”
“I don’t need a man! But you’re the one I want--God knows why!! I’ve never wanted anyone until you!! And I know you want me too!”
“For now! What happens when I don’t want you anymore?” He snaps, his cobalt eyes intense. “Because I guarantee you that’s how this is going to end.”
“I know that!! I will not be the first woman in history to get dumped, Mr King, and I won’t be the last. I’ll deal with it!”
He crosses his arms and narrows his eyes. “You’re saying you want to give your virginity to a man without love or like? Just sex? And you’re completely okay with this being a one time thing?”
Did he actually love or like his first? Shame streams my consciousness. Put that way, it sounds like something no decent girl would do. But it’s the only way to guard what matters. I only want to feel good with a guy I actually want. A man who somehow I miraculously trust with my body. Once. Just once. Is that so bad? Love, like, they convolute everything. “Yes. That’s exactly what I’m saying. So go ahead--tell me what a sl--”
“Stop fucking talking!!” He cuts me off, thundering. “And stop letting the mistakes of Warren and your mother define your life! You’re smart, spunky, and fucking beautiful. Any asshole would be lucky to have you!”
“Yeah? So why not you?!!!” My heart’s ready to give out, pecking at my ribcage like a hummingbird. Excuses? Or does he mean it? He thinks I’m all those things? Or is that the almost-sex talking? Because he didn’t seem to have this opinion three days ago.
He purses his lips, and fortifies his gaze. Then coolly looks away. Putting his jacket back on, he says flatly, “Like I said, go to your fucking room.”
What the freaking hell? He’s just brushing me off? The conversation is over for him, so it’s over for me? “This how you handle conflict, Mr King? Shut off communication and treat people like toddlers? Your way or the highway? You sure you’re meant for this job that you’re vying for?”
I wait for his usual distilled expression of internalized anger, but he’s on a roll surprising me today. He erupts, turning sideways and slugging his palm forcefully on the wall.
“No!! I’m not! I’m not fucking sure!!” He paces, a tiger in a cage, as I look on, startled. “I can’t sleep because I’m not sure! I’m out of my mind under the weight of not being sure!! And now you’re here--and I’m really not fucking sure! I can’t fucking think straight since I laid eyes on you!!” Then he pivots, advancing towards me, making me walk backward till my hip hits the counter. Hinging a frenetic gaze on me, he whacks his palms on the counter, fencing me on both sides. “Happy? Does that make you fucking happy?”
It doesn’t. Not even a little bit. And the fact that I’ve somehow managed to neglectfully poke at his sore spot, makes me want to take it back. I just want to smooth that dip between his eyes so angry-sad Eli goes away, and happy-horny Eli can make an appearance.
“Eli...” I tentatively start, gently placing my palm on his cheek. He stiffens at my touch, but doesn’t push me or pull himself away. So I keep it there, wondering how deep these still waters of his run. I think back to every piece of news I’ve uncovered on him over the years. It’s always about hotel business or about which celebrity model or actress or whatever is his current squeeze. No casual holidays with family, no relaxed evenings at games with friends, no non-work events, never a smile at the camera. His mother and father left him, his brother hates him, he’s never spotted with the same woman twice, and from what Warren said, the directors or whatever are not wholly on board with him running the ship. Who is Eli? This man that I’ve hated and envied from afar for so long? Up close, he’s too real, too human, and I can’t seem to remember my reasons for wishing he would drop dead. Because he seems as alone as I am. Maybe more, with all the pressure but no one to share it with. At least no one cares what I do, and whether I fail or succeed at anything.
“I’m sorry…” I say, not sure what else to say when my heart is sinking this rapidly. Somewhere in the far distance, are warning lights flashing and bells blaring. What about this man makes me want to bulldoze through my own walls and let him in?
“To fuck with your goddamn pity.” He spits, his gaze agitated, but also so freaking vulnerable, I can’t stand another second of it.
“Use me, Eli.” I tell him, throwing myself in the path of this tsunami, forgetting everything but the need to make him feel better. “Use me to forget.”
“You don’t know what the fuck you’re asking.” He grunts tightly.
He’s wrong. I do. And I’m scared of what it means for me. But something about being an instrument to bring him even momentary solace, outweighs the potential risk in my addled brain. It might be the beginning of an end, but self-preservation is the farthest thing from my mind right now. So I persist, placing my palms on either side of his neck, sewing his gaze with mine, “Please?”
And a dam breaks. His lips lunge and latch on to mine, hot and heavy and pressing. His tongue demands entry at the line of my lips and I open, winning a harsh groan when he finds my tongue already waiting. There’s nothing sweet or gentle about it. He’s taking what he wants, not rushing through it, but marauding nonetheless, and I don’t want it any other way. I feel a little taste of heaven when his fingers sink under my skirt and between my legs, where there are no panties, and the heel of his hand presses against my clit. My sex tightens around his fingers, pulling them deeper inside.
“You’re so fucking tight. So warm.” He says between groans and kisses, “So responsive. Perfect as fuck.”
And he’s magic. Pure, freaking magic.
When his mouth falls from my lips, I grab the collar of his shirt frantically, worried he’s going to do the one-step-back thing of his again. But he emits a low ‘fuck’ and sinks his teeth into the crook of my neck, his sweaty metallic scent and the sharp stab of pain making more wetness pool and run down my thighs.
“Eli…please...” I mewl, wanting his lips, his tongue, his teeth touching every corner of my skin. But I’m more frustrated that this is again becoming about me. So I drop my hand, brushing the rigid outline of his cock through his pants with my fingertips. He shudders, his teeth leaving my skin, his forehead resting against the spot on my neck that I hope shows a visible bruise.
His hips roll forward, and I fight for my breath, as my fingers shakingly grope the buttons of his pants. So custom fit that he doesn’t even need a belt. I pop one button, then the next, and my fingers feel a zipper below them. I grip it, and tug it down slightly, questioning what has come over my body. My muscles are clenching so hard between my thighs, so ready for him there, it’s almost unbearable. So I’m going with it. He draws back just enough to see my hand trying to free his cock. And then slants his eyes up, a shadow of want darkening the blue tones. A man looking at me like he’s about to split me apart, change me forever, and I don’t have the faintest urge to run for the hills. No, I’m wondering how the taste of him m
ight be. Whether it’ll feel warm when he comes inside me.
And of course that’s when a ring abruptly blares in the air around us, making him yank back out of my reach in one swift, immediate move. He extracts his phone from his pants pocket and eyes the screen, his hands unbelievably steady.
His demeanor and stance changes entirely. “It’s Warren.” He tells me coarsely, adjusting himself, fixing the buttons I undid. Then more smoothly, but avoiding my eyes, “Put on a bandaid.” He gestures in the general direction of the first aid box contents that lie on the floor of the bathroom. “Then go rest. First room on the right.” He finishes, opening the door and letting himself out, leaving excruciating hurt spiraling in my body in his wake.
How does he do that? Turn off so quickly? Is it really this easy for him? God, I’ve no idea what this is or what I’m doing or why, but I don’t want to hide behind closed doors anymore waiting for him to knock. So I trail him, like a puppy without a choice but to follow their human. I stay at the side, so he doesn’t notice me after he has accepted Warren’s call, and my father’s wheelchair-bound form fills the big TV screen in the living room. Shit, I hadn’t realized it’s a video call. I scoot sideways so I’m not visible, although I don’t know why I don’t just announce myself.
“What the hell’s going on, Eli?”
“A minor issue at the nursing home, Warren. I sorted it.” Eli responds in a robotic tone.
“Is your definition of ‘sorted it’ ‘punching a reporter on the nose hard enough to make him bleed and land him in the hospital’?”
He did what?
Eli straightens, pulling his shoulders back. It’s his defensive thing, I realize. “The man was trying to lift Ariel’s skirt to check what goddamn label she’s wearing.” He pauses, before continuing in a tight note. “After she clocked out. While she was in my arms.”
“Which would never have happened if you had just got her a goddamn bodyguard like I told you to do.”
“I need to first check with her—whether she wants a bodyguard or not is her call, Warren.”
“No it’s not! It doesn’t fucking matter what she wants!”
The hell? In addition to being a cheating coward, my father is a chauvinist pig? Has he been living under one of his hotels and the rise of feminism just passed him by?
“And why’s that?” I speak up, literally stepping out from the shadows. They’re both looking at me, but I focus on the screen. Although not looking at Eli doesn’t curb the tingles creeping on my skin. Thinking about what might have happened had this call not interrupted us. I fold my arms tight over my chest. “Why don’t I get a say?”
“Who did that?” My father’s angered voice directs my way as he sweeps my face. “Which one of them did that?”
He means the cut. What do I say? Mom? Because she hates me and loves you? “It doesn’t matter. And I don’t want a bodyguard.”
A brief wrathful glare at me follows, and then it turns to Eli. “You think I’m blind here, Eli?”
Ummm--what? And why do these people keep unilaterally dropping conversations with me?
“What do you--” Eli starts asking calmly, but my father’s ahead of him.
“Together. I said I need both of you doing everything together. But you pawn her off with Scott, you don’t keep a track of where she is and what she does, you can’t get her to respond to your texts or calls, after four days I’m yet to see her in office one single time, and now she’s actually physically hurt and you still refuse to get her protective detail? Are you waiting for her to run? Or perhaps die? Is that how low you’re willing to stoop now for this job? Have I been--”
“Stop talking to him like that!! Like he’s your valet!! And together needs at least two people to make it work--so why is he the only one you’re picking on?”
I don’t know at what point I start screaming at the screen at the top of my voice, because I really don’t care how Warren treats Eli—if anything, I should rejoice in the knowledge that it doesn’t exactly seem like they share an easy-going father-son relationship. Eli didn’t get what I never got either. But my stomach is churning, and it’s as if something inside me has detonated. It gets my father’s attention, and his expression is a blinking signal between confusion, astonishment, and remnants of anger. So much so, that he just looks at me wordlessly, open-mouthed. Good. Because it looks like I’ve only gotten started.
“I’m your mess, Mr Walton, not his. Eli doesn’t owe me squat. He’s worked for this all his adult life and now you’re telling him--‘by the way, I forgot to mention the freaking fine print’? How is that fair? How is it freaking fair that you’re making him bend over backwards for a total stranger only because your wife was kind enough to expire? When we all know that if she hadn’t, it was only a matter of time before I ended up with way more than a skin wound--and you would have done nothing to stop it!! So don’t even pretend to be the good guy here!”
Sudden distress twists his features. “I didn’t know, Ariel. I couldn’t believe what the PI came back with.” He says eventually on a troubled whisper, burrowing listlessly in his chair, his eyes glossing on the screen. “I swear to God, I thought both of you were doing okay. Tamara had a great job--she was a damn good financial analyst--and she’d always wanted kids...I had no reason to believe you were in any condition other than being raised in a good house with a caring, well-to-do mother.”
Yeah, well, she clearly did not want this kid. “How convenient for you. I hope that helped you live a full life.”
“Not one damn day.” He says, defeated, and now I’m hurting for him too. Maybe I’m being unfair myself to him, being harder on him than is fair, and deliberately vicious when all he’s trying to do is make up for lost time. God, I suck at this. Being a daughter. He’s dying and I haven’t even asked him how he’s doing.
“I...uh...I didn’t mean to yell.” I give him the lamest apology there is, but a smile slithers across his lips, easing all worry lines, suddenly making him look healthier.
“Yeah you did. And I deserved it.” He sighs. “Will you at least consider a bodyguard?”
One more man sitting on my head controlling my movements? Hard pass. I shake my head. “We’re holed up together like you wanted. Keeping a low profile in this place...why do I need a bodyguard if I’m just going to be here with him?” I turn to look at Eli, our gazes colliding, and holy hotness, is he pissed off or turned on? The muscles on his locked jaw flinch, and there’s a violent streak in the blue web of his eyes. “Right?” I ask Eli for confirmation, wondering what I’ve said wrong. “I don’t need a bodyguard, right?” Damn it, why am I so dickwhipped--worried about and trying to say what he might want to hear?
“Whatever you want.” He coolly replies, before turning to Warren. I would have to be deaf and blind to miss the bitterness there. “Today won’t happen again.” He vouches confidently to my father, while heat parks in my chest--by today, what is he referring to? “I’ll start ramping her up on company matters and I’ll work with Selena to settle with the reporter.”
“Eli, kiddo, I didn’t--” Warren begins in a mellow voice, his gaze on Eli softer.
“You don’t have to explain.” Eli squashes the rest of his words brusquely. “I get it. Anything else you need?”
Warren doesn’t respond right away, assessing Eli like a parent trying to decide whether to back off or keep probing when the kid is being cranky. “No. Take care.” He chooses to say finally, eyes going back and forth from me to Eli. “Both of you. I’ll talk to you soon.”
The silence that tails the end-of-call click tone is short lived.
Eli circles to face me, staying right where he is. “Because you let me tongue your virgin asshole and pussy--that gives you some kind of right over me?”
Straight on the offensive. His crude language throws my internal temperature into chaos as usual. Aroused and self-conscious, my body doesn’t know if it’s coming or...not. “I’m guessing that’s a trick question.”
He mov
es closer, physically anyway. We’re toe to toe, but the tautening of his forearms, the fisting of his palms, the harsh peaks and troughs of his ripped chest--there’s a bed of hot coal between us, waiting to burn us if we step into it. “We fool around for ten goddamn minutes and now you think you can fucking speak on my behalf?” He bites gruffly.
What--seriously? He’s upset that I defended his ass? “I did it because you wouldn’t. Are we supposed to just let him--”
He pounces forward, bending his head so our faces are a hair’s breadth apart. “There. Is. NO. We!!! There’s you and there’s me! And I don’t need you to fight my fucking battles! I don’t need you--period. And that is why I should have stayed the fuck away!! Because your type always wants more. Never satisfied with what you have. We almost fucked--that’s all it was. And now we are done. And you will never--ever--take the liberty that you took today. Do you understand?”
My type. What does that mean? Did some idiot girl like me hurt him? It bothers me enough that the intended sting in his words doesn’t afflict me this time. Maybe because his gaze on me is untethered, torrid, his dark eyes giving away the storm underneath. He can call it whatever the hell he wants, but it was more than fooling around. I saw it in his eyes. Felt it in his touch. Heard it in his voice. Tasted it on his lips. If I could, I would smother this smoldering chemistry between us that refuses to take a breather for a freaking second. But I can’t. So I won’t let him off the hook either.
It’s a shot in the dark, but it’s all I have. I suck in a breath. “Yeah, I understand. And you’re cool if I find someone else to finish what you started, right?”
“Excuse me?” A sexy little groove forms between his eyebrows.
I keep my face as bare of expression as I can. “I don’t plan on being a virgin all my life, Mr King. If not you, someone’s gotta show me how it’s done.” I halt, not sure how my heart is still beating. “I’m sure I can find at least one man who wants to be the first one to show me how good it can be.”
