I snap off a bit. “Crackly,” I say. My forced brightness is designed to cover the hopeless feeling.
It gets worse when he shows me his absolute favorite under-construction project, the Moreno Sky, a boutique hotel in Brooklyn that will be built in the crater of a half-crumbled-down building. It incorporates many urban ruin elements into the mod design.
He shows me support beams of reclaimed wood, the slabs of reclaimed concrete walls with graffiti from the 1970s. “This would’ve ended up in a landfill.”
I run my finger over the words Keep on Truckin’ in blue. “Did people say that?”
“Apparently.”
I can see why he likes it. The place incorporates a lot of the forward-thinking design principles from that building in Melbourne he’s so wild about. You can see it in the way the structure is mostly greenery and engaging public/private spaces at the bottom and the way the building takes on mass as it rises.
He shows me more of the construction site, how they’re folding old into new. “This is cool as fuck,” I say.
He hands me a hard hat. “We’re not even in the building yet.”
“Kaleb must hate it,” I say.
“I practically had to give up my firstborn to make this happen,” he says. “Running this place, I don’t get to design and build that much anymore, or really getting my hands dirty on any level.” He says this last in a wistful tone. Like he misses it. “You have to see from the top. Come on.”
We climb a circular concrete stairway to the main floor, what will be the future lobby. Right now it’s a noisy, unfinished space full of men and women doing different jobs—the trades, he calls them.
One side is a two-story wall covered in plastic. When the place is finished, it’ll be a curtainwall, which is apparently a wall of windows.
He shows me more old timber and twisted rebar that was heading into a landfill but that Henry feels could be incorporated into lobby furniture—he needs to get the bandwidth to figure it out somehow.
That’s how he puts it. I love his lingo sometimes.
We head to the “freight elevator” which doesn’t look like any elevator I ever rode or ever would want to ride.
Henry punches a button that’s attached to a metal coil thing. There’s a screech and a rumble and our cage arrives “Come on.”
We step in and it hoists us up though a seemingly endless concrete column that would be utterly dark if not for a sputtering makeshift utility light clamped to the side.
Fear spikes through me during the long flickers when I think the light might go out—I wasn’t prepared for how much like the well this would be—not the cage part, but how dark it is and the way we’re closed in by dark gray walls and you can see light way up high.
I move a little closer to Henry. I was so scared in that well for so long. Scared of dying. Scared to call for help. Scared it was Denny and his friends out there, looking for me, scared that they’d get to me first, but wanting so bad to get out. Scared of the sounds. But mostly I was scared of the dark. I would sit in a little ball. I would tell myself if I got really small, even the darkness couldn’t find me.
The elevator is taking forever, and I inch closer still, enjoying Henry’s nearness, his strength. I tell myself he’s just the vacuum cleaner salesman, not here to make me feel safe.
His fake currency still spends.
“Vicky,” he says.
I brace myself. Does he notice I’m being a freak? “What?”
“Are you going to smell me again?”
I smile. “It’s just a little rickety.”
“I forget you’re not used to this. Totally safe.” He puts his arm around me. “Okay?”
I don’t know whether the okay is about his arm around me or the safety statement. “Okay,” I say.
“I wouldn’t put you in here if I didn’t know it was safe. I wouldn’t do that.”
I nod. It’s not the elevator now, it’s him, doing strange things to my body. Him being protective. Like I’m one of his people.
“But if you want to smell me, you can.”
I don’t want to smell him. I don’t want the warm weight of his arm to feel so good. I want him to stop making me feel alive and happy. I want to not perk up in some soul-deep way when our gazes find each other from across a crowded room. I want him to not seem to admire the Vonda in me.
I want that not to feel amazing.
I lean in closer, stealing what doesn’t belong to me. My head isn’t exactly on his shoulder—it’s difficult to do that when you’re wearing a hard hat. But it’s close.
He brushes a lock of hair over my shoulder. His knuckles graze my jawline. His touch is featherlight. Barely there.
But the energy of it hums over my skin, spreading outward in a burn, like fingers of heat warming cold, remote parts of me.
I fight the urge to turn my face to his hand.
“You look hot in the hat,” he says.
“You’re just saying that.”
But when I do turn my head, his eyes are dark. Serious.
His voice lowers to a rumble. “I'm not just saying that, Vicky.”
Oh, I want to kiss him. And, if anything, an elevator shaft that looks like a well should be reminding me why I have an allergy to rich, powerful men. It’s not.
His eyes drop to my lips. My heart pounds.
The elevator grinds to a stop.
I’m shaking when we step out into wide open space, twelve stories over Brooklyn. And it’s not about fear.
Open blue sky soars above us and massive pillars of concrete surround us, stretching upward. Chains with links bigger than my head are coiled in piles, and there are stacks of wood and massive metal things like strange Legos.
I stroll to the far side, near a squared-off column. There’s a brightly spray-painted scribble on the concrete surface. Not from the 1970s, but new. Everything up here is new. Raw.
I toe the orange scribble like it’s more fascinating than the royal babies of England, but really I need to be apart from him, because I'm reeling from the goodness of his arm on my shoulder. The forbiddenness of ever falling for him. Of thinking he’s falling for me.
He comes up next to me.
I act like the operation of tracing the squiggle with my toe is of urgent importance. “Somebody went Jackson Pollack with the spray paint up here.”
“That’s actually a message. It’s there to show the electricians the alarm conduit placement.”
“How can you even read it?” I ask.
He kneels next to me, and his dark suit jacket stretches over his thick, solid arms as he points to different parts. “This is orientation. Right here is just a measurement. The fact that it’s orange means any kind of telecom, but this’ll be an alarm, of course.”
Of course, I think. Such a construction nerd.
I stand, biting back the urge to run my hands over his shoulders, to get in on the tautness of fine fabric over solid man muscles.
He twists and looks up at me, chin stubble glinting in the light. My heart is in my throat.
I force my gaze back to the scribbles. “The colors tell you?”
“Just like you see down on the street.”
“You’re all secretly communicating with each other?”
He stands. “Yellow’s natural gas. Red’s electric. Blue is water.”
His nearness affects me like a drug. My eyes fall to his lips, and I shiver.
“You cold?”
I’m not, but he’s taking off his jacket and putting it over my shoulders now, cocooning my arms, and I like it very much. I like how warm and soft it is. I like how he adjusts it so precisely, like he cares greatly for my comfort.
I tell myself the idea he cares about me is an illusion. Wishful, magical, ridiculous thinking.
Ancient people thought the stars formed pictures of archers and bears and gigantic spoons, but can we be honest for a moment? They’re just stars. They don’t form pictures, no matter how many stupid diagrams you make. Like the
stupidest dot-to-dot puzzles ever.
That’s what I’m doing with Henry’s affection. Making pictures that aren’t there. Elaborate diagrams of him wanting me. But it feels so real.
He holds the lapels of the jacket snugly shut, his breath gusting warm on my forehead. “I’m so glad you could see this.”
His tender gaze sizzles over my skin. Like he’s really looking at me. And then he smiles.
His eyes sparkle. Uneven dimples appear. It’s his Henry smile. The real Henry smile.
I reach my hands out from my coat cocoon and grab his soft, warm shirtfront, pulling him to me.
I kiss him.
Boom. He deepens the kiss. My kiss was soft, but his is rough and wild. With his other hand, he cradles my cheek, fingertips trembling with energy where they touch my skin.
“Vicky,” he rumbles. He walks me backward into a massive concrete pillar.
My hard hat falls down over my eyes.
“No, no, fuck,” he rasps, yanking it clear off my head and tossing it over his shoulder.
Because he wants to see me.
Somewhere behind us there’s a splock, and a softer splock as the hard hat comes to rest. I can barely hear it over the hurricane of my pulse whooshing in my ears.
And I want him so bad, I’m shaking.
He fists my ponytail. My breath hitches as slides the backs of his fingers up my throat, up to the tender underside of my chin. His touch sears me.
“Henry,” I say, trembling down to my toes.
“I fucking love watching my name on your lips.” His voice is ragged.
Silently, I mouth his name: Henry. And then again, Hen—
He doesn’t let me finish; my lips are still open when he kisses me, a desperate, open-mouthed kiss with the fury of a thousand senselessly whirling stars.
He shoves his hand into my hair, cradling the back of my head, pressing me back against the cool concrete post.
I can feel the shape of him against my belly, huge and hard. I want to wrap myself around him, to dissolve around him. To obliterate myself on him.
His breath is ragged as he bends to get our lips level. I reach behind him, fitting hungry hands around his warm, solid back, digging in with my fingers a little.
He makes a growly sound as he rains kisses over my cheek, my neck, before taking my lips once again.
The cool breeze caresses my exposed legs, but underneath my clothes, sweat trickles down my spine.
The entire building seems to sway in time with my thundering pulse, in time with Henry, pressing himself to me.
Somewhere down on the street, trucks and cars rumble by and honking horns are answered by other honking horns.
He’s still wearing his own hard hat. It’s sexy as fuck.
His breath turns erratic as he runs his hands over the sides of my hips, up and down. “You and your fucking skirts,” he says like my fucking skirts are a point of awesomeness.
Without warning, he grips my ass—clenches it hard—fingers like steely vise grips. He jerks me against his rock-hard erection and I gasp to feel the size of him through our clothes. “You feel that?” he snarls, notching himself to me, pulsing against me. “That’s how you have me every fucking day. Damn! You already feel good.”
“Oh my god, yes,” I breathe. He presses me harder. His weight feels amazing. I gasp as he kisses my cheek, my neck. Every time he moves, the pressure between my legs changes and my ache builds.
I’m pulling up his shirt, freeing it from his pants and belt. Finally I get to his warm abs. I press my hands there. I’m a thief now, taking what’s not mine. Consuming his belly, rough smattering of hair over muscle.
I don’t care if it’s not real anymore. It’s real enough.
“I’ve imagined this for so long,” he says, pulling away, panting.
I shiver as he skims his fingertips over my sweater-clad breasts “These fuzzy sweaters.”
“Take it off me,” I say. “Let me watch you unbutton it. Like before. How you started to before.”
“Have you been thinking about it?” he asks. “You been beating off to it?”
“Yes,” I breathe.
His fingers tremble as he unbuttons the pearl buttons of the sweater. I love that he’s trembling.
“Pull up your skirt, then,” he says.
I hunch over and pull it up, turning it inside out, gathering it up.
He pushes a hard-cut thigh between my legs. “Ride it. Move. I'm gonna need you good and wet.”
“I don’t know how much more wet I can…”
“Ride it,” he growls. He gyrates his hips, getting up the rhythm. I match his movement, moving while he undoes me. It’s a little embarrassing, but it feels so good.
“Harder,” he whispers in my ear. “If you want me to undo these dainty buttons, you gotta do your part.” He nudges my legs wider. “Ride.”
I do it. Satisfied, he returns his attention to the buttons.
“I look at these buttons sometimes…fuck,” he pants. Like he’s lost his ability to make sense. He kisses my forehead. “You watching me down there?” His fingers are soft spiders at my midriff, undoing the third-to-last button. The third-to-last button. “Unwrapping you. You watching?”
“I’m watching,” I say.
“Is this what I’m doing when you beat off? Don’t bother trying to tell me you don’t.” He knows it is. He flicks the last button. My sweater falls open.
His thigh between my legs is blunt waves of pleasure. He fists the center of my cami, uses it to pull me into a faster rhythm. “I love how you move on me.” He skims his palms up the front of me, sliding over the white fabric, calluses catching and snagging. “Like this?” he says. “Is this what I do to you next?”
“Next,” I pant, “you do whatever you want to me.”
His chuckle is a rumble in my ear. He curls his fingers around the tops of the bra cups and jerks down. I gasp at the violence of the movement. My breasts pop free with a jiggle.
“Jesus, you’re hot,” he says. He throws off his hard hat and kisses me roughly, then pulls away, panting.
“Watch my hands, kitten, watch what I do to you.” He presses his hands over my breasts, rough and warm. “So fucking hot. My cum would look so good right here. All over these pretty tits. You look so prim and proper, it makes me want to corrupt you. It makes me want to unravel you. There are so many layers to you, and I'm going to fuck them all.”
The layers comment sends momentary alarm through me, but then he plucks my nipple, and the zing of it flares bright white inside me.
“So entitled.” My breath speeds. The city spreads out below us like another world, another time, dizzying and slightly unreal.
“Why aren’t you riding?”
“I need something else there now,” I say. “But isn’t this a little bit exposed up here?”
“Nobody sees you but me,” he says.
I think it might be true on a level he doesn’t mean. I don’t know how to feel about that. He slides the pads of his fingers over my lips. Lust runs thick between us.
“Open.”
I gaze up at him, knuckles grazing his steely abs.
“Wetness is not going to be a problem,” I say.
“Baby.” The word feathers my cheek. “You’re not the only one beating off to things these hands might do.” He slides a thumb over my bottom lip, pulling it down. “Open.”
I open and he slips two fingers between my lips, into my mouth. “Suck. Get them nice and wet. These are the fingers that are going to fuck your pussy.”
Heat rushes through me as I palm his bulge, as I suck his fingers, as I run my tongue over them. He slides them in and out, watching me.
“This is how you’re going to suck my cock when the time comes. Except you’re going to squeeze the root and give me a little teeth on the bottom. Try it.”
It’s so Henry to give me a tutorial on sucking his cock. I wrap my hand around his fingers and give him a little graze with my bottom teeth.
&
nbsp; “Fuck yeah. Perfect.”
He pulls out his fingers and anoints my nipples. They pebble in the cool breeze coming off the water.
“Only I see you.”
He pulls aside my panties with rough efficiency and curses, low and rumbly, when he finds me waxed and wet.
“Fuuuck,” he groans. “What have you been hiding under these librarian skirts?”
“Not books,” I say.
His fingertips brush my sensitive clit, sending a jolt of pleasure through me, making me gasp.
A dimple appears on his cheek and I kiss it. It goes away, but then it appears again and I kiss it.
“What are you doing?”
“Being so fucking into you I can barely think,” I say.
He pulls away, panting, eyes wild, beard stubble sparkling. “Oh, yeah?”
Suddenly I feel bare to him. Not just physically, but soul-deep bare. As if his fingers are everywhere inside me. “Yeah.”
He slips rough, thick fingers deeper between the folds of my sex. My head tips backwards onto the hard pillar, eyes drifting closed.
“Oh, yeah,” I say as he slides them against my clit with the perfect motion. He changes his angle, and this new sensation swirls through me, making me senseless and lightheaded.
“Do the nipple pluck thing,” I whisper.
He breathes out a shaky fuuuuck. “You are so fucking everything.” He does the nipple pluck thing and I cry out. It’s rougher than I expected. Hotter than I expected.
He exhales a shaky breath and kisses my cheek and then my ear. His teeth graze my earlobe, sending wicked lightning all through me. He plucks my nipple again, softer this time.
It’s like he’s learning me. Exposing my secrets. Stripping me bare for the first time.
His fingers send rippling heat up through my core.
His strokes go long and strong. He slides two fingers in. I suck in a short, sharp breath.
“I gotcha, baby.”
I crash over the edge. White-hot pleasure. Naked and alive.
“I gotcha, baby.” He pins me to a pillar high above the city, raining kisses over my face. I’m lost. I’m found. I clutch his arms, kissing him back.
“Fuck,” he says again. As though the whole thing surprised him.
I feel shaky all over. And fresh and new.
Most Eligible Bastard: an enemies-to-lovers romantic comedy Page 14
