by Megan Hart
"He lied to me, over and over. To your mother. Probably to every other woman he ever was with," Molly whispered harshly into his ear. She clutched at his back, fingers scrabbling loosely before she let him go. "Don't you be that man, Elliott."
"I don't want to be." He clung to her for a moment longer, then let her go.
"Then don't." She nodded firmly, as though that solved the matter. Maybe to her it did. "And if you did, go to her right now and apologize."
"I didn't lie to her." Elliott sat back. "I don't even really know her."
"But you like her." He said nothing at first, and Molly shook her finger at him again. "Is that what you lied to her about?"
When he didn't answer her, Molly gave him another of those vivid, piercing looks. "Or maybe it was yourself you lied to, honey. Yes?"
Yes, Elliott thought, but didn't say it out loud. He reached for her hand and held it between both of his. He sat with her until her eyes closed and she fell asleep.
Then he sat there for a little while longer.
Chapter 15
Only Aidan would call her so fucking early, and only he would keep calling until she answered. Simone had been dumb enough to leave her phone off the charging dock, which meant that the calls came through instead of being kept on silent. Muttering a string of curses, she pressed her pillow to her head, but even though it muffled the sound at least a little, there was no more sleep for her.
"What?" She barked into the phone at last.
"Simone?"
Shit. Not Aidan. Elliott? She sat up in bed, the blankets twisted around her tight enough to keep her from being able to prop herself up all the way. She fought against them, finally untangling herself from the blankets enough to sit cross-legged, the phone tucked against her ear.
"You're an early riser," she said.
"Simone. It's ten-thirty."
"On a Sunday," she told him. "What kind of person gets up at ten-thirty on a freaking Sunday?"
"I've been up since six-thirty," Elliott said.
"Ugh." Simone fell back onto the pillows. "Why?"
Another pause. "Because I always do."
"Well. You should get out of that habit. It's disgusting." She grinned, snuggling deeper into the covers.
"I like getting up early. Gives me so much more time to do stuff."
"On a Sunday. Like what. Go to church?"
"I don't go to church. Do you?" He asked.
Simone laughed. "Do I impress you as the sort of girl who goes to church?"
"You impress me as the sort of girl who does whatever she wants."
"Well, anyway, I'm Jewish," she told him. "Bet you didn't guess that."
"No."
There came a soft huff, maybe laughter. Maybe a sigh. Simone listened carefully and couldn't figure out which. It didn't really matter.
"Does that matter?" She asked him. Sometimes, it did.
Another sound, this time sounding surprised. "No! Does it matter to you?"
"Nope."
Silence, though it wasn't awkward. At least not too much. Simone listened to the sound of Elliott's breathing and waited for him to say whatever it was that had been so important that he'd needed to call her before noon on a Sunday.
"So . . . Simone," he said finally.
"Yessss?" She drew out the word, letting it linger. Dropping her voice.
"Listen," Elliott said, but then didn't speak for another whole minute.
She watched the numbers turn on the clock, so she knew exactly how long it was.
"About what happened," he said. Then nothing else.
"You know, for a guy who's supposed to be such a wheeler-dealer, you certainly aren't a very smooth talker."
He laughed. That was good. She pictured him scrubbing at his face. Mussing his hair. No, he wouldn't do that. Even if he were still in bed, she’d bet he'd have perfect hair.
"I can talk."
"Oh, I'm sure you can spin a tale when you have to. But this casual conversation stuff, man. You kind of suck."
"I'm trying to tell you something, if you'd just listen!"
"I'm listening," Simone said quietly. "I'm listening, Elliott."
"What you said in my office. About me liking to hurt the women I fuck. It's not true."
She didn't contradict him. She waited. He breathed.
"I like to make you feel good."
"You did, honey." The endearment slipped out of her. "Really good. I told you, I like . . ."
"I know what you said."
"Elliott. Do you think I'm the sort of girl who'd tell you I like something when I don't?"
"No. I guess not."
"You're not used to women who tell you the truth, huh?"
He paused. "It's not that. I don't usually ask, that's all. I don't see them more than once or twice, remember?"
So he did have a sense of humor. Dry and self-deprecating, but there was nothing wrong with that. In fact, she liked it. A lot.
"I like you," she told him suddenly. She wanted to tell him she'd liked him for awhile, but as with the scones and everything else, that would mean she'd have to own up to her Peeping Tina tendencies. She waited, but he didn't say anything. Simone sighed. "Now would be the perfect time to tell me that you like me, too."
He sighed into the phone with enough force that he'd have ruffled her hair if they'd been together in person rather than talking on the phone. Simone rolled her eyes, trying not to let it hurt her feelings. Reminding herself that he'd called her, and there had to be a reason, if only she could be patient enough to let him get to it.
"I don't think we should see each other again. That's all."
Simone had never been a patient sort of girl. "You woke me up on a Sunday morning to tell me that you don't think we should see each other again?"
"I wanted to let you know."
"So you wouldn't be rude?"
"Yes. That's part of it," Elliott said.
Simone chewed the inside of her cheek for a moment. "What's the other part?"
"I don't want you coming to my office again."
Everything inside her went cold. Then hot. Then cold again.
"I see."
"It's not you," Elliott said finally.
"No. It's you. Definitely you."
There came a long silence in which she was certain he would disconnect the call. Simone sat with the phone pressed to her ear until he did, without even a good-bye, trying to pretend this didn't matter. Trying to tell herself it was better to know, no matter how hard it had been to hear.
It was always better to know.
Chapter 16
Elliott hated to run, but it was one of the few things he'd managed to hang on to from his high school days, when he hadn't been athletic or competitive enough to play team sports. Track and field had allowed him to compete and be part of something, yet hadn't been necessary for him to rely on someone else to perform. Or to have someone else rely on him.
So, he ran even though he hated it, and he ran hard until everything ached, and then he went home and ran the shower icy cold until the stars at the edges of his vision had stopped dancing and he was sure he wasn't going to pass out. Then he turned the water slowly to warm. Then hot.
He'd seen Simone in the lobby of the building two days ago. She'd looked right at him. Then past him, those brilliant blue eyes gliding over him without so much as a blink of recognition. He might as well have been a stranger for all the attention she'd paid.
He was a stranger, that was the thing. The fact they'd fucked didn't change that. The food she'd brought him, the easy way she had about her, the way she'd kept managing to make him laugh when he wasn't expecting it . . . none of that mattered. It didn't make them know each other.
And he had put a stop to any chance they'd have of getting to know each other, too. He'd been an idiot about it. Calling her up, telling her that he didn't want to see her again. He wouldn't have done it, except that Simone had proven to be the sort of woman who wouldn't simply wait for him to call, and wh
en he didn't, get the picture and quietly sulk her way out of being interested.
He'd had to tell her he didn't want to see her again. If he didn't, she might've shown up at his office with food and that hair, that body, that intoxicating smell. Because if she'd done that again, he wouldn't have been able to stop himself from taking what she was offering.
Thinking of it now, his cock stirred. He was no fan of self-denial, but he hadn't fucked another woman in weeks. That wasn't that unusual. He'd been busy with work and sometimes the effort of finding conflict-free sex wasn't worth the reward. But he hadn't even jerked off, which wasn't like him.
A few strokes got him completely hard in a minute. Leaning into the water, head down to let the needle-harsh stream hit him all over the back of his neck, Elliott put a hand on the wall. He gave his cock short, careful strokes, every so often palming the head. The water didn't make him slick enough, so he spit into his palm and shuddered at how much better that felt.
He couldn't stop thinking about her.
"Fuck," Elliott muttered as his hand moved.
His knees bent a little as he pumped forward, into the heat and slickness of his hand. No substitute for her warm and willing pussy, but damn, after so long without coming, he was already close. His balls tightened, along with the pucker of his asshole. He let out a long, low groan.
He could finish himself off like this in another thirty seconds, but some perverse part of him wanted to keep it going. Prolonging the pleasure was its own sort of punishment, there was no way to ignore that, but at the moment he could focus only on the shudders of sensation flooding him. Slower, slower, slower, until clear droplets of pre-come eased out of him, slicking his stroking even more.
Bent over in front of him, she presents that perfect ass and looks over her shoulder at him with that smirk she has to know drives him wild. Her blue eyes are smudged with heavy black liner. Her black hair in soft spikes. Red mouth ripe, she shifts her hips from side to side, tempting him.
She spreads her legs, giving him a teasing, tantalizing hint of that pretty pussy. The dark hair there. A glimpse of pink. Tilting her hips, she offers him her body, and he wants to slide his hard cock so deep inside her. Fuck her until she screams his name.
He wants to make her beg for him.
He takes his cock and rubs it along the seam of her cunt from behind. Then up. Simone bends her head, no longer looking at him. Waiting for him. Her skin dimples with gooseflesh; he can hear the soft, anticipatory sound of her breathing quicken when he taps her ass with his dick.
When he covers one ass cheek with his hand, letting her feel the warmth, Simone shudders. She arches, just a little, pushing herself into his touch.
"I want it," she whispers.
Elliott smacks that perfect ass, leaving behind the imprint of his hand, slowly turning red. The other goes between her legs to find her soaking pussy. The hard knot of her clit, which he tweaks between his thumb and forefinger, jerking it.
She cries out, spreading her legs. He pushes a finger inside her. Then another. A third. He fingerfucks her until she bucks her hips, and he slows, stops, keeping his fingers deep in her hot, wet pussy. Smacks her ass again, the other cheek this time.
"You want it." The words drop out of him like stones into water, solid and making ripples. "Tell me you want it."
"I want you, Elliott."
"You want me to what?"
"Fuck me," Simone breathes. "Make me come. Make me hurt, Elliott. Please."
Gripping her hips, he turns her and lays her back on the edge of the bed, her legs spread. Everything open to him. Her pussy's wet and swollen, and he uses the tip of his cock to tease her clit, stroking it over her flesh again and again until she begins to tremble.
He can't stop himself then from pushing his prick inside her. Her pussy tightens on him, clutching, and he pinches her clit as he fucks in and out of her. Faster.
Her eyes capture him.
"What do you want?" he asks her, voice strangled and choked with his own pleasure.
"You," Simone cries. "I want you."
Seating himself balls deep inside her, Elliott stops thrusting. Looking deep into her eyes, watching her pupils dilate, he spanks her clit. Hard. And when he feels her come around his cock, her pussy squeezing and fluttering all over him, he comes too.
* * *
With a wordless shout, Elliott spent himself in his fist. He came so hard he painted the shower's tile walls. Four, five spurts that left him gasping and shuddering. His hand skidded on the wall, and the world spun from the hot water and force of his orgasm.
With the aftershocks of his climax still pulsing through him, he spun the faucet handle, turning the water back to cold. Another set of gasps tore from his throat as the frigid spray hit him in the face, but it didn't stop his cock from throbbing out another last few tremors.
In the bedroom Elliott fell naked onto the bed and let everything settle. The ceiling fan spun lazily over his head, drying him, and he watched the blades turn until he was slightly hypnotized. He swallowed heavily.
Still thinking of her.
Incredibly, despite the huge orgasm he'd just had, arousal continued to stir low in his gut. Another erection was too much to ask at the moment, but even though he'd nearly blown off the top of his head with that climax, it had all been fantasy. The reality of it . . . of her . . . had been so much better.
He'd been a moron to tell her that he didn't want to see her again. It had been a lie, and worse, as Molly had said, because he'd been lying to himself as much as to Simone. Maybe more.
If he called her now, would she want to talk to him? See him again? Could she forgive him for being such a prick?
He half rolled, finding his phone and thumbing the screen to look at the numbers stored there. He hadn't deleted hers. He had, in fact, entered Simone's information as a contact. He'd made her permanent in his phone when he had no intention of doing the same with her in his life.
"You're a fucking idiot," he said aloud.
He didn't call her.
Slipping into a pair of boxer briefs, Elliott went to the kitchen to scramble some eggs and fry up some potatoes. Breakfast for dinner had always been one of his favorite meals, once upon a time the only thing he'd known how to make for himself on those nights when his mother hadn't been home to make sure he ate. Or the times when she'd been home but incapable of holding her head up straight, much less fixing him dinner.
Molly'd been the one to teach him how to cook real meals beyond boxed mac-n-cheese or tuna sandwiches. She'd taught him how to cook pasta to the perfect texture and make his own sauce out of simple ingredients. Nothing gourmet, but all good.
Molly had also taught him to do laundry, to put the seat down on the toilet when he was done, to wipe the globs of toothpaste from the sink.
"Someday," she'd always told him, "you will live with someone else, and it's important to know how to be a grown-up about it. To clean up after yourself, to be responsible. To be considerate of sharing your space."
To not be his dad, he'd thought at the time, though that hadn't been what Molly said. Not out loud, but he'd heard it in her sigh and saw it in the way she rolled her eyes when his father got up from the table to disappear into the den without so much as taking his dish to the sink.
Molly'd taught him how to be a man someone wouldn't mind living with, but here he was at forty-two, still single. Never even had a roommate. Probably never would, Elliott thought as he scraped the pan to get the last crunchy bits of potato and egg onto his plate.
When his phone rang, he paused with his fork halfway to his mouth. It wouldn't be Simone, but there was no denying that his heart had skipped a beat or two, hoping. He thumbed the screen to answer it.
Stupid, he told himself. She won't call you. She doesn't chase. She doesn't have to.
"Barry," he said, recognizing the number. "Let me guess. You need a favor."
Chapter 17
"It's not like I stubbed my toe and had an orgasm," S
imone said crankily as she stretched. “It’s a little more involved than that.”
Teresa laughed. "If only, huh?"
"It took me a long time to figure it out. I mean, it's not like trying out different flavors of ice cream. Or shades of lipstick. Sex is . . . complicated." Simone frowned as her friend bent her body in ways no human body ever should without breaking. "How the hell do you do that?"
Teresa gave her a serene smile. She'd barely broken a sweat, while Simone was what her demure mother had always referred to as glistening. Screw that. Simone was sweating like a pig. She stretched again, but gave up and flopped onto the floor with a groan.
"It's like anything else. Practice." Teresa laughed. "You're flexible, Simone."
"If you mean that I can get my knees behind my ears," Simone said wryly, "yeah."
Teresa settled onto the mat with her legs spread out in a wide V and put her elbows on the plush white carpet in front of her. Only a woman with no kids and no pets would have white carpet unless she was crazy, and Teresa had three kids under ten, two cats, a dog, and a husband who worked in construction and often had muddy boots. Which made her crazy.
She'd also been Simone's best friend since the sixth grade, when they both developed boobs and a crush on the same boy at the same time. He hadn't paid attention to either one of them, but they'd bonded over that rejection. Besties ever since, and thank God for it, because without Tree, Simone would've jumped off a bridge a long time ago.
"I think I only figured out what I really liked in bed when I started reading romance novels," Teresa said.
"No shit?"
"Yep. I mean, me and Ed have been together since the eleventh grade, you know? I had no idea how my body worked. How could I expect him to figure it out?"
Simone had known for a long time how her body worked, but she understood what her friend meant. "The first time I ever figured out that pain got me off was with Jeremy. Remember him?"
