Fuck.
Eric floated his other hand over my body, then reached over my shoulder and plucked a pussy willow branch from the bouquet on the counter. The soft nubs drifted over my neck, pressing just hard enough not to tickle, but light enough to elicit a trail of goose bumps. I remained silent as Eric brushed the branch over my shoulder and down my arm. Completely benign, perfectly unremarkable places. And yet, as the fronds pulled at my neckline and tickled the hollows under my jaw, I had never been more turned on.
“Eric,” I whispered, unable to move.
He just watched the progress of the soft buds as they floated down to my collarbone and back up my neck again.
“What about now?” he murmured, hypnotized by the path of the bud. “Do you want to now?”
I gulped. Then I nodded. I couldn’t lie.
His expression flashed with satisfaction.
“I can’t touch you,” he said. His eyes met mine, big and pleading, as if to say, but I wish I could.
I squirmed, both out of frustration and commiseration. I understood he was scared, even if I didn’t fully comprehend why. Just as I also understood the currents of desire flowing back and forth between us were unavoidable. Wanting this man was as natural as breathing.
Before I could stop myself, I unzipped my dress, then pulled my arms out of it, one at a time. I let the structured fabric drop, leaving me bare from the waist up.
Eric grunted and sucked on his lower lip as he looked me over. I moaned softly. I wanted to do that.
The pussy willow branch painted a path over my breasts, between their taut peaks, over their swollen nipples, through the shadow of their curves. I twisted slightly back and forth, begging wordlessly for a stronger touch, a pinch, a slap. When I closed my eyes, I could almost imagine it was his fingers, not a flower bud teasing my skin into a pebbled frenzy. I could almost pretend he was tracing kisses around the tip of one nipple, then the other.
I sucked in a breath. When I opened my eyes, Eric was biting his lip so hard the skin around his teeth had turned white. Like a magnet, his gaze met mine, and a low, guttural groan emerged from deep in his chest.
Slowly, almost like I was trying to touch a wild animal, I brought my hands up to clasp his cheeks, but he shook his head against the motion.
“We can’t,” he said. The growl was low. “You know that, Jane.”
We were inches from each other. It wouldn’t take much. All I had to do was lean forward, tap my lips to his, and he wouldn’t have been able to do a thing to stop me.
But I also knew I wouldn’t do anything without his consent, just like he’d never do anything without mine. No matter what, that was the one promise neither of us had ever broken. As mad as I was, I wouldn’t start now.
“Why?” I whispered, unable to keep the quake from my voice.
Eric’s entire body shook. “Please believe me,” he said, so quietly he almost mouthed it.
“But I can, right?”
His eyes opened again, newly sharpened. “You can…”
“Do it?”
I took the pussy willow and tossed it over my shoulder, onto the counter. Eric watched, transfixed, as I brought my hands to my breasts.
“Yesssss,” he hissed as I took each nipple between a forefinger and thumb, then pulled slightly, plucking on them like strings on a violin.
He set the empty vodka bottle on the counter. While I continued to torture myself in the way I wished to God he would, Eric unbuckled his belt and unzipped his pants. He reached into his boxers and pulled out his erection, which, in my expert opinion, looked painfully hard. He shuddered as he wrapped his hand around it, and his gaze quickly dropped between my legs. It was immediately evident what he wanted.
“Do it,” he whispered. “Show me, pretty girl.”
The name. That fucking name. It was so benign, so innocuous, I should have been even angrier that he used it whenever he wanted. He knew its Pavlovian effect. He knew I couldn’t say no when I heard its siren call.
Nor would I now. Because in truth, I wanted the release too. I wanted to feel someone’s touch—if not his, then mine—push my skirts up to my waist. I wanted to feel the tickle of hands on my inner thighs, the slight intrusion of a pair of fingers pulling aside my underwear.
So I did it. I peeled off my tights and underwear and let the dress fall to the floor. Then I sat back on the stool, feeling every bit the rebel and the work of art this man had always proclaimed me. I yearned for his touch, so I supplied it for myself, slipping one finger, then two over my clit while my other hand continued to pinch and pull at my breasts. I leaned back against the counter, deliciously on display as I worked on my own pleasure, entranced as much by the sight of Eric fisting his own sex in rhythm with my fingers.
“Oh!” I cried out.
But Eric paused his own ministrations—a pause that looked as painful as my own—held a finger to his mouth, and shook his head. And I knew without arguing that that was my choice. Do this silently, or not at all.
Wildly, I nodded. Yes, I understand.
His hand started to move again, this time faster. A few times, the tip of his cock just barely touched my thigh in a wet, dewy kiss of skin on skin that made Eric jerk and bite back a moan himself.
My fingers moved faster as well. I wanted this so badly, and that familiar precipice was approaching more rapidly than it ever had. My head was thrown back, eyes clenched shut as I braced myself for the fall into ecstasy. But just as I was about to topple over, another intrusion tugged me back into the present.
Something cold. Something hard. Rounded, but still blunt-edged.
I looked down to find Eric still massaging his cock, but with his other hand slipping the tapered end of the empty vodka bottle between my thighs. He held it at the end and stood between my legs.
“Holy shit,” I whispered, but made no move to stop him. Real talk: if I had been alone in my room, I would have already taken care of the job with my rabbit. Three times over. My legs were already splayed open through no movement I could recall—I was dying for something down there. No, I was dying for him down there. And he knew it.
But he wouldn’t break his word. Even now.
“Is this—is it okay?” he asked, his voice barely above a hum.
I stared harder. The bottle didn’t move, poised just at the juncture of my legs, but not actually invading that private space. But yes, he was really doing this. I looked at him. And then I nodded again.
“Do-do it,” I told him.
A hint of a smile lifted on one side of his face.
The bottle slid in maybe an inch. Maybe less. I rocked my hips into it. Eric pushed it in a little further. It was the hottest thing I’d ever seen.
Eric’s gray eyes met mine. “Don’t stop, pretty girl.”
Maybe it was the fact that I’d barely heard that name in weeks, and he’d already used it twice in the last few minutes. Maybe it was the fact that as hard as I tried not to think about Eric whenever I did pleasure myself, his face, his entire body, always appeared. As if attached to an electric current guided by those two words like light switches, my fingers started moving again, with the same rhythm as the cool glass sliding in and out of me, as the steady movement of Eric’s fist around his cock. The three of us moved together, almost as one—fingers, bottle, fingers, a crazy finger trap of a situation, until I was practically lying on the counter, open to whatever penetration he was willing to give.
Eric pushed the bottle in again. My fingers pressed harder. I exploded. And so did he.
Ahhhhhhhhh! I opened my mouth in a soundless scream, my entire body seized with pleasure, but also pain of this man’s absence. Eric shook over me, every beautiful muscle in his sculpted body on display as he emptied himself over my thighs, my stomach, even my breasts.
His mouth shivered too, hovering maybe a millimeter from mine as he braced himself on the counter’s edge, trying to catch his breath. His lips, soft and inviting, brushed mine so lightly, I wasn’t completely su
re they actually did, or if it was just the heat of his breath. Eric shuddered, a full-body movement that seemed to move through mine like a wave. Then he closed his eyes and stood up. The bottle slipped out, and I collapsed against the counter.
“Bed,” he said hoarsely while he moved around to toss the bottle in the garbage.
Unable to move while he padded into his room to clean up, I sat there. I swallowed heavily, then reached around to grab a napkin off the counter—one of an expensive monogrammed set we’d received as wedding gifts from an Astor or a van Dusen cousin. I swiped the linen over my legs, almost rueful to clean off the evidence of Eric’s loss of control.
Pathetic. I was so pathetic.
Was this all we were anymore? Would we dance around each other in a tense tango for the next fortyish or so day until we couldn’t fucking take it? Give up to silent, tortured orgasms in vodka-infused darkness?
Whatever happened to real, functional relationships?
Have you ever had one of those, Jane Brain?
I shook my head. I did not want to think about my dad—either of them—at a moment like this.
The sound of Eric’s knuckles rapping on his doorframe pulled me out of my thoughts. I turned to find his tall, elegant body silhouetted in his bedroom door. He tipped his head, remaining silent, though his meaning was clear.
I finished cleaning myself off, then abandoned the wreckage of my dress and the napkin to follow the man wordlessly into his room—what was our room. I followed him onto the plush king bed, allowed him to wrap me in the duvet before sliding under it himself, lying on his side to face me.
He smiled, and the bittersweetness of it broke my heart and made it sing all at the same time.
“Thank you,” he mouthed without sound.
I just nodded. And together we lay, watching each other as sleep crept nearer.
But for some minutes more, after Eric had drifted off, I considered: how could I still love someone I hated this much? How could I hate someone I loved so intensely?
Both questions swam around my mind in circles for a long time as I watched him sleep. And by the time my eyelids drooped shut, I didn’t have any more answers than when I started thinking. I wasn’t sure I would ever know.
Sixteen
By the time I meandered into the kitchen the next morning, Eric had left for work. Again. And when I waited up that night for him to return—all I wanted to do was talk about that strange interlude—I ended up falling asleep on the couch at some time past midnight. But I woke again in his room the next morning, this time fully clothed. Apparently, someone broke his “no touching” rule to carry me to bed.
The next day I went to sleep in my own room, but when I woke up the following morning, there was a head-shaped imprint on the pillow next to mine. The night after that, I tossed and turned on the night of a very uneventful thirtieth birthday after dodging my mother’s calls and accepting a few messages from friends. But I did nothing else to celebrate, alone until Eric appeared in my doorway in nothing but his briefs, tipped his head silently toward his room, and padded back into it. Of course, I followed.
On the pillow, there was a book wrapped in coarse brown paper. He nodded, and I unwrapped it carefully, not needing to be told I should keep quiet. Inside was a large book of Mario Testino—one of my favorite fashion photographers. The images were lush and rich and beautiful. Just like the man in front of me.
“Happy birthday, Jane,” he whispered as his fingertips floated over mine.
Then he lay down, and I followed suit. We blinked at each other for a long time in the darkness, and eventually fell asleep, watching, but not touching, resting, but not speaking.
On Thursday morning, I walked into the kitchen to find Eric making coffee.
“You’re actually here,” I said as I took a seat at the counter.
He looked up from his plunger contraption. I wasn’t allowed to mess with Eric’s designated coffee-making area of the kitchen—it looked like a laboratory, not a cooking station.
“Oh,” he said. “Well, yeah. We have to leave in about an hour.”
I frowned at his tone. Was there something I was missing? “Where are we going?”
“Boston, right? You’re going to Skylar and Brandon’s too, aren’t you?”
Still sleepy, I looked around the apartment, and things suddenly clicked. It was Thursday. Of course. Thanksgiving. I was expected in Boston this afternoon.
I swung back around. “Um, no. You are not going to Boston.”
Eric pressed the button on his milk frother. “What? Of course I am.”
I shook my head vehemently. “No, you’re not. I need time with Skylar. I don’t know what the hell we’ve been doing for the last four days—”
“Nothing,” Eric interrupted. “We’ve been doing absolutely nothing.”
His utter denial of all the intimacy that was still between us just made me that much angrier.
“Exactly!” I snapped. “No touching, right? I’m basically living in a strip club parody.”
“Jane!”
“Well, just because I have to share this fucking apartment with you like the ghost of gentlemen’s clubs past doesn’t mean I have to share my holidays too. I’m going to see my best friend. I don’t need you tagging along like Casper.”
Eric worried his jaw for a moment until the frother beeped behind him. He gave me a view of his t-shirt-clad back while he finished making his drink. “Brandon invited me last weekend, Jane.”
“So, what? Skylar invited me weeks ago.”
He carried two mugs of perfectly foamed cafe au laits to the counter and set one in front of me. “Brandon was my best man,” he said calmly.
“Skylar was my maid of honor,” I countered.
“I’m their kids’ godparent.”
“So am I!” I exploded. I shoved a hand into my hair, then angrily tied it up into a bun. “I’m sorry, but this is bullshit. I have claims on the Crosby-Sterlings in the event of a split. They are my home base, not yours. Go share a turkey with Nina and Calvin. You’ll have plenty of relatives eager to kiss your feet now that you’ve officially been named in the will. It will be fun.”
Eric sighed and rubbed his jaw, which was covered with an irritatingly sexy layer of stubble this morning. “Did it ever occur to you that I might need a break from this situation as much as you?” He blinked, and the shadow of his lashes hung heavily over his cheekbones. “It hasn’t been easy on me either.”
The look on his face from Sunday flashed through my mind. Pain, he’d said. Pain is all I feel. Except when I’m with you.
My shoulders slumped. I really didn’t want him there, but not because I truly hated him. And he had a point—it was this situation that was eating us up, not each other. When he was around, I felt so confused. It was impossible to compartmentalize my life the way Carson insisted, and even harder to compartmentalize my emotions. Being around Skylar and Brandon, who had such an obviously loving marriage, would only cast Eric’s and my situation into higher relief against theirs.
But Eric, who could usually read me enough to understand my body language, still didn’t offer to stay. Which told me that, yes, he probably needed the companionship of his real friends as much as I did. Or maybe he was worried about meeting the requirements of the will. Did cohabitation also leave no room for holidays or vacations?
Fuck.
I’d never know.
“Fine.” I pushed off the stool and stomped back into my room to pack, then immediately turned back and swiped my coffee off the counter.
Eric just watched with an irritating smirk.
“I’m only accepting this because you don’t want to ride all the way to Boston with me uncaffeinated.” I avoided his eyes as I took a long sip. Lord, the boy really did know his way around a French press or whatever that thing was. Much better than the instant crap I was drinking in Chicago.
“Whatever you say, Lefferts.” Eric turned to clean up.
I paused by my bedroom. �
��And to be perfectly clear, we’re staying in separate bedrooms.”
Behind me, there was a distinct snort. I slammed the door.
“The helicopter leaves at noon,” Eric called through the walls. “Tony will drive our bags up later.”
I opened the door and peeked back out. “Helicopter? Try the Chinatown bus, buddy. We may be rich, but we’re not assholes.”
Eric rolled his eyes, but didn’t stop drinking his coffee. He also didn’t even bother giving an answer. Because, of course, the smug bastard knew I wouldn’t hesitate to trade a four-hour bus ride for private helicopter. Even if it meant I was harnessed next to his arrogant ass.
* * *
Shorter ride or not, Eric’s presence on the way to Skylar and Brandon’s house seemed to exist solely to piss me off. For the entire flight to Boston, he was determined to play Annoying Tour Guide, constantly smacking his arm across my chest to point out various boring lighthouses and townships on the coast. On the way to Brookline from the helipad, he kept trying to fix my clothes. My hair was messed up from the headphones, he said. And by his metric, my tag was showing at least five separate times. I wasn’t sure what tag that was, since I had made the fucking shirt myself. Discovering the cherry-printed silk at a fabric shop in Albany Park was a coup last year.
By the time we had picked up the wine and challah bread on our way to the house, I was about ready to smack him. He had traded items with me four times before we even got into the car.
“Here, let me hold that,” he said, sticking the wine bottle between his legs so he could grab my seatbelt and latch me in.
“OhmyGodyouhavetostop!” I blurted out, batting his hands away. “Why are you so damn fussy today? I can buckle myself, for fuck’s sake!”
Eric shrank back into his seat, then clutched the wine and looked out the window.
“No reason,” he mumbled.
“Obviously it’s not no reason,” I retorted. “I think the last time someone fastened my seatbelt for me, I was five. What’s up?”
The Kiss Plot: Book Two of the Quicksilver Trilogy Page 17
