by Megan Hart
Instead, she'd walked away before she could give in to that desire. He didn't deserve it. Or her. And she wasn't going to lose her shit in front of him, not in public or in private.
Now here she was on the balcony, looking out over the cityscape and envying the view. She had a drink in one hand and a plate of hors d'oeuvres in the other. Booze, food, and a view. What more could a girl ask for?
Company, of course. And there he was. Elliott fucking Anderson, looking sharp and immaculate and delicious in a suit that made her want to climb him like a tree. He had a drink in each hand and he gave her one like he thought she'd actually take it.
So of course, she did. White wine, not her normal drink, but she put down the one she had and sipped the one he’d offered. She waited for him to say something. Anything. But instead he leaned on the railing and looked out across the buildings.
A hint of music wafted from the party inside. Simone sipped her wine and waited for someone to come out and interrupt them, but nobody did. She leaned on the railing, too, not touching him, but close enough that he could have taken her hand if he wanted to.
"I like you," Elliott said finally. "I wish I didn't, but I do."
Simone sighed. "Ugh. Really? That's what you lead with?"
He looked at her, his expression serious. "Would you like it better if I lied and told you I liked you when it wasn't true?"
"I'd like it," she said, "if you just said you liked me without any sort of qualifier."
"Fair enough."
She waited, but he didn't say it. "I like you, too, Elliott, even though I don't think I should. Because you're kind of a dick."
"I haven't been able to stop thinking about you."
"That's better." Simone sipped her wine and looked out again at the city so she didn't have to look at him. "Thank you."
"I've been thinking a lot about what you said to me in my office that day."
Simone swallowed hard, but kept her gaze on the buildings and the lights and the darkness, and anything except his face. It was her nature to run her mouth. She'd heard it often enough. From her mother. From Aidan. But now she waited to give him time to speak.
He didn't. Not for long, long minutes. She could stop herself from making words, but she couldn't stop her heart from beating faster. Or her breath from catching in her throat. All she could do was wait. And wait. And wait some more, until it drove her crazy.
"I do like it," he said finally in a low voice.
Simone let out the breath she'd been holding. She closed her eyes, feeling the floor tilt underneath her. Too much wine. Not enough air. Her throat closed, any words she'd meant to say tucking themselves under her tongue and staying hidden behind her teeth.
"I like that you like it," Elliott murmured. "I fucking love it, as a matter of fact. It makes me lose my fucking mind."
She had a clue, now, why he was so against it. "And you don't like that."
"No. That's insane. Who likes losing their mind?"
"'We're all mad here,'" Simone said, quoting the Cheshire Cat.
She felt the weight of his gaze on her, and there was more silence until, at last, she turned to look at him. He moved a little closer and set his glass down on the small wrought-iron table near them. The clink of it on the metal was like the snap of teeth.
"You don't mind being crazy," Elliott said.
Irritated, because fuck, everything about him infuriated and aroused her, Simone swiveled to stare him down. "No. Actually, I don't. Crazy is a state of mind usually interpreted by other people."
"Nobody ever knows they're crazy, is that what you're saying?" He moved a little closer.
Simone didn't move away. She looked him in the eye. "If you think you're crazy, you're probably sane."
He huffed soft laughter. "What about if you think you're sane?"
"Probably mad as a hatter." She laughed, too, and leaned back against the railing, propping her elbows against the metal. She tilted her head to look at him. "You know, earlier tonight, I was so angry at you I wanted to spit. All of that stuff you said in your office, it really got to me. You really hurt my feelings. It's not that I thought I was special to you or anything---"
"You are special to me," Elliott said.
Simone shivered.
When he kissed her, she opened her mouth for him. Took his tongue. His hands on her ass pulled her closer. Then one slid to cup the back of her neck.
"You're special," he said into her mouth as his fingers tightened on her skin. "And you make me crazy. And I hate it."
She meant to laugh, but it turned into a moan.
"I don't want to see you," Elliott said.
Simone slid a hand between them to cup his thickening erection. "Liar."
He pressed her against the railing. The metal hit her between the shoulder blades. His mouth moved from hers to her throat, where he nipped lightly at first. Then harder, until the pressure of his teeth sent shimmering spears of sensation straight to her clit.
"Touch me," Simone said.
"I am touching you."
She took his hand and slid it under the hem of her dress. "Touch me here."
The French doors behind them opened. At this angle, whoever was there would only see them in an embrace, not where his hand was. He didn't move away. Didn't take his hand away. All he did was turn his head.
"Trent," Elliott said smoothly. "Hi."
His fingers moved, slowly, slowly against her, before he finally pulled away. Simone shifted to let her dress fall down around her thighs. They both moved away from each other at the same time.
"Don't let me interrupt," Trent Boudreaux said. "I was looking for Barry."
"Nobody out here but us chickens," Simone said.
His gaze traveled over Simone's face. Her cleavage, such as it was. He gave Elliott a thumbs up, grinned, and ducked back inside the room.
"Do you want to stay at this party?" Simone asked.
Elliott shook his head.
"Good," she said. "Then take me home."
Chapter 20
"There are things we should talk about," Elliott said as Simone looked around his living room.
Hardwood floors. Leather couch. He had a fireplace that didn't look as though it had ever been used, and that somehow didn't surprise her. Nor did the coasters on the end table. The doilies on the arms and back of the chair did. So did the flowered curtains.
"How long have you lived here?"
"Can I get you something to drink?"
"I had enough, thanks. But you . . . you go ahead." He'd driven her here, but she could take a cab home if she had to.
Not that she planned on going home tonight. Not until after breakfast, at least, and she had no plans on that happening at six-thirty in the morning. And if she had her way, no matter his habit, Elliott wouldn't be up that early either.
Elliott put the lid back on the crystal bottle of liquor without pouring anything. He took off his jacket, then looked around as though he wasn't sure where to hang it, before moving to the stairs across from the front door and hanging it over the railing. He turned and caught her staring.
"It doesn't belong there," he said unnecessarily.
Simone looked around the room, noting all the details before focusing again on him. "So . . . put it where it belongs."
"It belongs in the closet upstairs."
"So," Simone said with a small smile, crossing to him, "let's go upstairs."
"We have to talk about some things first."
She hadn't forgotten the kiss on the balcony, or anything else about him. If she kissed him now, would he let her? Or would he pull away? Simone ran a finger along his tie, tugging it a little.
"You have rules, Elliott?"
"More like . . . guidelines."
She laughed low and slid her hands up the front of his shirt to squeeze his shoulders gently. "Okay."
He put his hands on her hips, easing her closer. "I thought you'd have some trouble with guidelines."
"Did you, now?" Sh
e tipped her head back to look into his face. "Why? You think I'm a rebel?"
"I think you don't like to be told what to do. Isn't that what you said? You never want to call a man Master."
They were moving closer, closer, pressed against each other. He nuzzled her neck, and Simone sighed, offering him her skin. He didn't bite, but the anticipation of him doing it tightened her nipples and sent heat puddling low in her belly.
"Is one of your guidelines that I have to call you Master?"
"No. Of course not." He backed up one step, taking her with him. Then another, before he turned her and led her upward so she was ahead of him on the stairs.
Standing taller than him, Simone ran her hands through his hair. "Is one of them that I can't mess up your hair?"
He pushed her gently backward, step by step. "No."
"Does it mean I can't wear your T-shirt to sleep in?"
"No." He kissed her softly. Then harder, as they reached the top of the stairs.
Down the hall, he led her. Kiss by kiss. Simone didn't bother to look behind her, not worried she would trip or bump into anything. Elliott, she knew, would not let her fall.
"Can I use your toothbrush?"
He shuddered, pausing for a moment before backing her into an open door. "No. Absolutely not."
Just inside the bedroom, Simone linked her fingers behind his neck. "You can put your mouth on me, but you can't share a toothbrush?"
Elliott made that noise, the one that sent her spiraling into desire so fast it made her head spin. That growl. He did it against her throat, and his hands gripped her just above her hips, not quite hard enough to hurt, even though she wanted it to.
"You put your mouth," Simone murmured, "on my pussy . . . but you can't share a toothbrush."
His hand went between her legs, stroking over her panties. "Is that what you want me to do?"
"Yes, Elliott."
"You want me to share my toothbrush."
Simone burst into laughter and shoved at him a little. "No! I don't care about the toothbrush! I want you to put your mouth on my pussy."
"Oh. I think I could manage that," he said.
Oh, wow. There was that smile. That smile that killed her. Slayed her. Opened her right up, all the way down to her soul.
She fisted the front of his shirt and pulled him to her for a long and bruising kiss that ended with her nipping at his lips. She put her mouth to his ear. "Tell me your guidelines."
"Later." Now he backed her up to the bed, a king-size made up with a perfectly pressed spread and tons of extra pillows.
She was on her back in another few seconds. He was on top of her after that, between her legs, his hard cock pressing her clit through the layers of their clothes like he'd been born and made to fit her. He did not kiss her. He held his mouth just above hers, teasing her with his breath.
When he pinned her hands above her head, grinding the bones of her wrists in his big hands, Simone cried out his name. He growled again at the sound of it. Her hips lifted. His hands slid behind her, finding the zipper of her dress with unerring ease.
She was bared to him in seconds, having gone without a bra for the strapless dress, her lace panties stripped away as easily as the dress had been. Elliott pushed her knees apart and moved between them. His fingers traced her labia, then spread her open there, too.
Simone arched, head tossing on his pillows. She gripped the sheets. She urged him on with her body and wordless, desperate moans. He didn't put his mouth on her. He blew a puff of air over her swollen pussy, and it teased her clit until she gasped out a plea.
He laughed and pushed up on his knees to look down at her. He loosened his tie an inch at a time and tossed it aside. Then the buttons on his shirt, revealing his chest. He shrugged out of the shirt while she watched, but he didn't throw it on the floor. He folded it neatly and set it carefully on the bed without ever once looking away from her eyes.
Simone groaned. "You're killing me."
"You're impatient."
"Is patience one of your guidelines?"
"Yes." His hand went to his belt, opening the buckle. To the button beneath. The zipper.
She licked her lips, pushing up on her elbows to stare at him. "I want to see you."
He didn't push his pants down. He ran his hand up the inside of her thigh instead, nails lightly scratching. "Patience."
With a groan that was of pleasure only because denial was a kind of torturous pleasure, Simone fell back on the bed. She put her hands on his headboard, gripping the spindles. She opened her legs.
Elliott covered her with his body, mouth feasting on hers while his hand slid between her legs. "Tell me about the pain."
Simone paused, but only for a second before she was opening her mouth to him again. She tilted her hips to urge his fingers inside her, but he didn't push inside her. "I like it."
"Why?"
"I don't know. I just know that I--" She cried out when he pinched her inner thigh, not hard enough to bruise but still with a deliberation that spiraled arousal all through her.
He did it again, finding the most tender part of her and twisting the flesh between his thumb and forefinger. It only lasted a second or two, barely long enough to hurt at all, but it felt so fucking good her hips bucked. She writhed.
"Tell me about it," Elliott said into her ear before biting her earlobe.
"It's all tied together. Pleasure. Pain. I like it when it hurts because . . . it just . . . feels . . . better . . ." She laughed. "I can't talk when you're doing that with your hand."
"Do you want me to stop?"
"No." She turned a little to look at him. She put her hand on his face. This close she could count the individual hairs in his brows, the faint lines at the corners of his eyes. "I don't want you to stop, Elliott."
He closed his eyes for a second, then looked into hers again. "I love how you say my name."
She kissed him gently. "Elliott."
"Tell me what you like," he whispered against her neck.
"I like it when you use your teeth." She gasped when he did, then again when he did it harder. "When you pinch my nipples, that's fantastic."
"Like this." He sat up and ran his hands up her sides to cup her breasts, then pinched her nipples lightly.
"Oh . . . fuck . . ." She arched.
He did it harder. First one, then the other. Simone cried out and writhed. He left off one to push his fingers inside her pussy.
When he moved his mouth down her body, biting and nibbling, she held her breath as long as she could, but when he at last settled his lips and teeth and tongue against her clit, all she could do was gasp. His tongue flickered against her, the pressure teasing and too light, but in the next minute he'd found that sensitive flesh on the insides of her thighs again. Licking, sucking, pinching.
"Oh, fuck, oh fuck, oh fuck, Elliott, that feels so fucking good." He scraped his teeth along her clit until she shook with the pleasure of it. "You make me . . . mindless."
He paused at that, but only for a second or so before he was back at it. His mouth was magic, moving over her. His fingers, too. Inside her. On her thighs. Simone rocked against his kiss and touch, until up, up, and over she tumbled into an orgasm that left stars sparkling in the edges of her vision.
"Fuck me, Elliott," she breathed into his ear.
It took him a minute or so to wriggle out of his pants and reach for the nightstand drawer to pull out a condom. She sat up to sheathe him, cupping his balls for a moment. Watching his face. His lips, wet from her climax. The furrow of his brows when she stroked him, head to base.
"I want you," she told him.
He kissed her, pushing her back on the bed. He cradled her for a moment, and she wondered if he wasn't going to fuck her, after all. But then he slid a hand between them to fit his cock inside her, inch by delicious inch.
"I want you, too," he whispered against her.
"Let me make you crazy, baby," Simone said.
Then he started to move
inside her, and she had no more words.
Chapter 21
Elliott was not used to a woman in his bed. He'd lain awake for a long time last night, but woke at his normal time even though he was exhausted. He'd stared for a while at the ceiling, waiting for the room to get light enough for him to see, but ultimately, the soft, relentless sigh of Simone's breathing beside him had pushed him from the bed.
It wasn't that he didn't want her there. That wasn't why he'd gone downstairs without waking her, or why he now sipped coffee as he stood outside on the back porch and watched the sun get higher in the sky. It was because although it had taken him awhile to fall asleep, waking beside Simone had felt so natural that he couldn't imagine not doing it every day.
She had driven him crazy the night before.
He wanted her to drive him crazy again.
The creak of the stairs was as familiar to him as the sound of his own heartbeat. How many times had he forgotten to skip that fourth step from the bottom when he was sneaking out . . . or sneaking in? He knew the sound of the floorboards in this house, too. The squeak of the linoleum. Still, he didn't turn, even when he heard the click of the screen door opening behind him.
"I got up and you were gone." Simone yawned.
She had indeed helped herself to one of his T-shirts, a V-neck. It hung to her thighs but shifted to reveal a hint of her perfect breasts when she leaned on the porch railing to look out over the backyard. She nudged him with her hip.
"I get up early," Elliott said.
"I know. You told me that. Remember?"
He held out his coffee mug without a word, and she sipped from it with a grimace before handing it back.
"Too sweet," she told him.
"I can get you your own."
She smiled. "I can get it."
She didn't wait for him to stop her, just went inside and helped herself to the cupboard for a mug. Filled it. Dug around in his fridge for cream, too, though she didn't take sugar.
