by Megan Hart
"Why not let me take you out for a real meal?" Elliott asked.
Simone paused in taking out the carton of hummus and bags of chips. "First of all, that sounds more like a date. Second of all, me and you? We have some discussing to do. And I sort of got the idea that you're the kind of man who doesn't like to make a scene. If this isn't enough food for you, we can order pizza."
Shit.
"Are you going to make a scene, Simone?"
"No. I don't intend to," she told him. "But I do intend to say what I mean to, and I do mean for you to listen."
"That sounds ominous." He tore open a bag of chips and dunked one in the hummus, his stomach rumbling.
"Only if you're uncomfortable with discussions of an adult nature."
He paused to give her a look, trying to judge her. She'd said it lightly enough, but her expression was neutral. He sat back in his chair. "You're pissed off."
"Let me ask you a question, Elliott. Don't you think I have the right to be a little disgruntled?" She sat in the chair on the opposite side of his desk and sipped from her paper cup of coffee. Her voice, still light. Expression, still neutral.
He knew enough about women to know he was in for a shitstorm if he didn't play this right. The problem was, he was never able to play things right. Elliott sighed.
"What do you want me to say? Sorry?"
"Are you sorry?"
He looked at her. "No."
"Then don't say you are." She sipped coffee again. "But I think you need to understand some things about me."
He expected her to tell him how she didn't put up with bullshit. How he didn't know what he was messing with. Maybe even that he was a selfish prick. All things he'd heard from other women over the years.
"I'm not a robot," Simone said, instead. "I'm a real girl. With real feelings. Which might surprise you, or make you feel uncomfortable, but that's the way it is, and for someone who made such a big deal out of me being rude for dancing with someone else when you told me you didn't want to dance, I think it was particularly rude of you to fuck me and leave without so much as a 'call you later.' You didn't have to stay for breakfast, but you could've at least acted like you weren't chewing off your arm to get out of a trap."
"I don't like to sleep in someone else's bed."
"Who does?" Simone said with a frown. "You could've just said so."
"I've tried that in the past. Women don't like it. They think I'm making an excuse. Or that I should somehow get over my desire to sleep in the comfort of my own bed, with my own pillow, for their sake."
"Oh, women," Simone said with an airy wave of her hand. "We can be some kind of crazy bitches."
Elliott snorted reluctant laughter. "Yeah, you mentioned that the night we met."
"But men," she added, "can be assholes."
"Yes. We can. I wasn't trying to be an asshole. I just . . . didn't want an argument."
"I wouldn't have argued with you."
"I didn't know that."
She smiled, then. A small one. "No. You didn't."
"I'm sorry," Elliott said, surprising himself.
"Accepted." She gestured at the food. "Eat up."
He dug into the hummus and crunched a chip, watching her as she sipped more coffee. He could remember the taste of her. The feel of her skin under his fingertips. The way she moaned, the color of her skin fading from red to creamy pale . . .
"You're staring," she told him.
Elliott shifted, uncomfortable. "I'm sorry."
"Are you imagining me naked?"
He had been, but shook his head.
She grinned. "Liar."
A smile tugged his mouth. "Are you imagining me naked?"
"Oh. Absolutely." Simone lifted her cup toward him. "I'm hoping I get another chance to see it for real."
"You're not . . . mad."
She sighed for a moment. "Listen. You're kind of hard to like, do you know that?"
"Yes."
"Bonus points for acknowledging," she told him.
Elliott tore the lemon scone into four equal pieces and laid them out on the napkin, since he had no plate. Before he could reach inside the paper bag for another napkin, Simone handed him one. "Thanks."
"And yet I like you anyway," she said.
"You have suspicious taste in men."
She gave him a cheery smirk. "Oh, there's no doubt about that. But here's the thing, Elliott . . . you like me, too."
He did like her, that was the crazy thing. He'd liked her from the moment in the elevator when she'd transformed herself from office mouse to after-hours vixen. And when she'd held her own at Barry's party. He liked the way she tasted and smelled, the way she moved under him, but most of all, he liked the way she responded to him.
"I don't even know you," Elliott said.
"You know parts of me," Simone replied in a low voice.
He was no longer so hungry. Elliott wiped his fingers carefully on the spare napkin. "Seeing you naked doesn't mean I know every part of you."
Simone got up from her chair and came around the desk to sit on the edge of it. Her knee brushed his on purpose. She crossed her arms at first as he leaned back in his chair. Then, before he could stop her, she swung her leg over his lap. Straddling him, she put her hands on his shoulders, her thumbs brushing his neck.
She put her mouth to his ear. "I like it when you hurt me."
Chapter 13
Simone had never seen a man move so fast. One minute she was on Elliott's lap. The next he'd lifted her and pushed her to the side so hard she stumbled, whacking her elbow on the edge of his desk as he got out of his chair, which went spinning into the wall behind him. She straightened, rubbing it with a wince.
"That's not the kind of hurt I mean," she told him.
"What the hell is the matter with you?"
She didn't feel much like laughing, but forced a chuckle to keep her voice light. "You want the whole list, or the Reader's Digest version?"
Elliott blinked. Ran a hand through his hair. Then across his mouth. "I'm sorry I pushed you. Are you okay?"
Simone rubbed her elbow, which was still tingling. "It's fine. I'm sorry you were so upset by what I said."
They stared at each other for long, silent moments that she wasn't going to break. He could tell her to get the hell out. He could pull her into his arms and crush his mouth to hers. Either way, she was going to leave it up to him.
Elliott frowned. "Do you always just say what you think?"
"Mostly."
He looked at the spread of food she'd brought--she knew his preference for lemon scones, hummus and chips, because that's what she'd seen him bring in for breakfast or lunch. She'd known he'd be hungry, because she'd watched him all day, and he hadn't eaten. She'd known, too, that he'd need that extra napkin.
She knew so much about him, Simone thought, and he had no idea who she was.
"Look," she said suddenly. "I came here because I wanted you to know something. About me. I wanted you to know me a little, Elliott. I mean, we were pretty intimate already, and I know you don't really see women more than once or twice--"
"Who said that?" He looked surprised, but not affronted.
It had been a guess, based on the parade of women he'd been bringing to his office for the past year and a half, since the first time she'd stayed late and noticed she could see him from her window. He wasn't denying it. Simone shrugged.
Elliott frowned. He did that a lot, but she'd seen his smile, and it was worth waiting for. He rubbed at his mouth again. Not smiling.
"I don't want to be your girlfriend, just so you know," Simone told him. "I don't think fucking equals love. I want you to know that, too. And I'll never, ever be that girl who shows up on your doorstep with mascara streaming down her cheeks, asking you why you don't love me."
It was working. The corner of his mouth twitched. Just a little. Not quite a smile, but the promise of one.
"I like sex. A certain kind of sex, to be honest," she said bluntly. "The
rough kind. The kind that leaves marks. It's not that I can't get off on the soft, romantic, vanilla-flavored fucking, because I can. But I like the pain."
Elliott coughed.
Simone didn't back off. "I like teeth on my throat and having my nipples pinched, having my hair pulled and my clit slapped."
Elliott coughed again, harder this time.
"I don't like being tied up. Or spanked as discipline." The tone of her voice had gone from light to slightly harsh, but she didn't work too hard to change it. "I will never, ever wear a collar. I won't call any man Master."
He smiled then, finally, and though it was far from that brilliant one she'd had the luck to catch the night they'd been together, it was better than the frown. "No. I don't imagine you ever would."
She smiled, too. "I like you, Elliott Anderson. You're smart. You have a good job. You're sexy as hell--"
He huffed out soft laughter at that and shook his head.
"And you like to hurt women when you fuck them."
That stopped his laughter as fast as it had begun. The frown was back, this time accompanied by furrowed brows. He didn't deny it, but obviously he didn't want to admit it, either.
"You like it," she repeated softly. "And I like it. So where's the harm in liking it together?"
He shook his head again. Harder, this time. "You have no idea."
"About what? What I like?" It was Simone's turn to frown. "Because I can guarantee you, I've had enough time to figure it out. I mean, this wouldn't be the first time a dude's tried to tell me what I like or not--"
"No. Not about what you like. About what I like. I don't. Like . . . that," Elliott said.
He was lying to himself. She knew it, but wasn’t going to call him on it. Taking a chance, Simone sidled a little closer. "All I'm saying is, maybe we could give it a try."
"What? Fucking? You said it yourself. I don't see women more than once or twice. I've already seen you more than that." His lip still curled in a sneer, but his gaze wouldn't meet hers.
Simone's chin went up. "Fine. Listen, I don't beg. I don't chase. I don't need to."
"I'm sure you don't." It was a compliment that sounded vaguely like an insult, and it stung her unexpectedly.
She pushed away from the desk. "Enjoy the scones."
He reached to snag her sleeve as she passed. "Wait a minute."
She waited without looking at him. Elliott let her wait, but he didn’t say anything. Finally, she turned. "What?"
"You don't know me," he said.
She gave a pointed look at the scones. The coffee. The napkins. Then at him. She raised a brow.
"No?"
His mouth thinned. "No, Simone. You don't."
"Fine," she said again.
"I know you think I'm a dick."
She laughed then. "Oh. Yeah. Definitely."
"I'm sorry," Elliott said.
"No, you're not," Simone told him as she took up his phone from where he'd left it on the desk. She programmed something into it quickly and put it back. "But when you are, I guess you know where to find me."
When she'd gone, he thumbed the screen to check what she'd done. It was easy to see, since she hadn't closed the address book. She'd left him her phone number.
Chapter 14
"You're early." Molly gave him a questioning smile. Propped up in the bed, her silver hair brushed out around the shoulders of the quilted pink dressing gown he'd bought her, she looked easily ten years younger than she was.
For the first time in months, her gaze was bright and clear. Her hands shook when she held them up to take the bouquet of wildflowers he'd brought her, but her smile was firm. She breathed in the scent, then handed them to Elliott to put in the vase he always kept filled on her dresser.
He wasn't early; he was actually a little late because of the conversation with Simone. Still, he didn't correct her. "How are you feeling today?"
"Oh, fine." She frowned and lowered her voice. "That nurse, though. The one with the outrageous hair. She says I'm not supposed to get out of bed without ringing for her first. How ridiculous."
"She doesn't want you to get hurt, that's all." Elliott pulled out the wilting flowers from the vase and dumped them in the trash, then poured the old water down the sink in the bathroom.
"Hurt? How would I get hurt?" Molly said, gesturing to tell him exactly where to put it. "To the left, so I can see them."
"You could fall." Elliott stepped back, waiting to see if she had other instructions. When she didn't, he pulled the chair up to the side of the bed.
"And I could win the lottery." Molly snorted. "Or the Miss America pageant."
"Falling and breaking your hip is a lot more likely to happen than either of those."
She scowled. "You act like I'm an old, decrepit lady."
She wasn't that old, only fifteen years older than his forty-two. And she wasn't decrepit, either. But the brain trauma that had started her slide into early onset dementia had also left her with balance and coordination issues. The same trauma made her forget them.
"I'm not," she added, but wistfully, as though she needed him to convince her.
Elliott took her hand. "No. You're not."
She looked down at her fingers twisted in his. "You're early."
"I couldn't wait to see you, that's all."
Her smile was worth it. "Charmer. Just like your dad."
It wasn't the first time she'd compared him to the old man, and would likely not be the last, but this time as all the others, Elliott grimaced. He shared his father's dark hair and blue eyes. The same height and build. In pictures of his father at the same age, the resemblance was eerie. But he wasn't his father in any other way than the physical, no matter what Molly might say. He refused to be.
She gave him a sudden bright and penetrating stare. "What's going on with you? Something is. I see it all over your face."
"Nothing." But, like the kid who’d been caught sneaking cigarettes from her purse, Elliott knew his face was giving him away.
Molly sat back against her pillows, shaking her head. Her hand slipped from his. "Nope. No. Something's put a frown on your face."
"That's just my face. It always looks that way."
She shook a finger at him. "Sourpuss. It will freeze looking like that, and then what'll you do?"
"Would be an improvement," Elliott said with a grin.
She laughed. "Very funny. I guess nobody could ever say you're vain or arrogant."
Plenty of people had said just that and worse. Elliott had no illusions about the sort of man he was seen to be. Or the man he was, for that matter.
"What's her name?"
"Huh?"
"It's a girl, I guess. It usually is when you get that look. Like you're tasting something sour but you can't stop yourself from going back for a second bite." Molly gave him a satisfied look. "You think I don't know?"
There'd been many, many days when she didn't know anything, but today she was spot on. It was such a difference, such a relief, that it didn't even matter that she was right. He'd been thinking about Simone for the past four days, since she'd brought him scones and a challenge. He couldn't stop.
"Who is it? That cute little blonde? No." She snapped her fingers. "The redhead. Yes? The one who liked to write poems."
He wasn't sure if Simone had ever written a poem, but he bet if she did, it wouldn't be the sort that rhymed. He laughed, even though the women Molly was describing hadn't been in his life since college. That had been right around the time he'd stopped bringing them around. Right around the time everything bad had started.
"No. No. No." Molly shook her head, her gaze going a little unfocused. "I bet she's a brunette this time. A dancer?"
Elliott laughed uncomfortably at how close she was to the truth. She'd always had that way about her. Molly had said it was because she'd been born with a caul, that it gave her a sixth sense. Not psychic, she'd always said. Just intuitive. But there'd been times when he'd have said she could read h
is mind, usually the things he didn't want anyone to know.
"You know you're the only woman in my life."
"For more than a minute," Molly said with a laugh that sounded so much like her old self it made Elliott want to punch something. "But you can't tell me there isn't someone. I can see it in your eyes. You're far away today."
"I'm sorry. I don't mean to be."
"Oh, shhh, Elliott. You don't have to apologize to me. You know that." Her eyes fluttered and she drew a slow, hitching breath. "Just tell me what the trouble is. Don't fight me on it. You know I'll work it out of you eventually."
Eventually, she'd forget all about it. Within the hour, probably, even though this was a good day. He shrugged.
"There's nothing to tell." He paused.
Molly looked at him.
"Her name is Simone," Elliott said. "She works in my building."
"Doing what?"
This stopped him. "I . . . don't know. I didn't ask."
"But you met at work?"
"On the elevator."
"And you made her laugh with some witty remark, yes? Just like your father." Molly's head fell back against the pillows as she closed her eyes, words slurring a little.
No. Not like his father. "I should let you nap."
"I'll have all the time in the world to sleep when I'm dead."
"Molly," Elliott said sharply. "Don't talk like that."
She opened her eyes, pinning him with a sharp, birdlike gaze. "No woman likes to be lied to by a man, Elliott."
It was something she'd said to him in the past, but did she remember that? Or was she simply speaking from the heart, forgetting her past lectures the way she sometimes forgot who he was. Or where she was. Or what had happened to her in the first place that had led her on this twisting path.
"But she'll put up with it for a man she loves," Elliott said, voice stone cold, without emotion.
He'd only been repeating what she'd said to him more than once, but at the words, Molly sat upright. Pointing. Face in furious lines.
"No. No woman should put up with a man who lies to her. Especially not when she loves him!"
It was the first time she'd ever said that, and it moved him enough to lean across the bed to hug her. Tightly, but careful not to crunch her bones. She felt so much more fragile now.
