The Plan: A Standalone Off-Limits Romance

by Ella James

  And maybe I still want my ex-husband—just a little.

  Gabe

  At 5:40 a.m., when she starts creaking on the boards above my head, I walk into the bathroom, take the top off of the mouthwash, and pour the bottle down the sink. The sharp scent wafts into my head. I close my eyes as I inhale. My hands are sweaty on the counter’s edge. My legs feel weak and unsteady.

  A brief glance in the mirror shows a man I know too well lately. Gabe McKellan—insomniac. Gabe McKellan—addict. I don’t like to see my own tired eyes or line-drawn face, so I step into the shower. In where it smells like soap and water, and not gin—or her. I lean my back against the tiles and tilt my head back. Breathe.

  I almost licked a jagged shard of glass after I took her home. I pressed my hands into the gin-soaked rug and ran my damp fingers under my nostrils. I saw a few drops atop a shelf and my mouth watered. For six hours, I tortured myself cleaning that room—while Cora whined from the bedroom where I quarantined her and, at random-seeming intervals, Marley creaked around upstairs.

  All night on my hands and knees: kneeling, crouching, bending down and standing up to pick up shards and toss them in a bag. I saw it as penance. For Marley or Geneva?

  I feel no remorse for Marley. I’m aware I should. I should have had the self-control to keep from letting her into the foyer. When she asked to hug me, I should have sent her packing. I could have lied to her. I should have evaded her. But I was weak. Needy. She hugged me, and I put my arms around her. What happened after that was near inevitable. And still, I didn’t have to put my mouth on her soft skin. I didn’t have to carry her into that bedroom. I fucking fed on her.

  I didn’t slake my desire in the back of her warm throat, or in her sopping cunt, so maybe that’s worth something.

  Even now, I haven’t let myself come.

  Penance.

  Now I hear her moving just above me. For a second, my hot water flickers. Because Marley’s in the shower. She must have foregone her morning run.

  I hear her soft footsteps again. After a minute, I get another shot of cold water. I can’t help the vision in my head of Marley in the shower: water streaking down her soft, round hips, her soapy hand over her fat, pink pussy.

  Goddamn. I can’t help myself: I fist my cock and start to pump. It seems fitting that the shower loses heat at times, and rains down icy water on my miserable erection. I’m not surprised to find the cold does nothing to chill my lust.

  I can almost taste her, even now. Can feel her tight hole squeeze my finger as my other hand fucks her slick pussy. I can feel the taut bud of her clit under my thumb, and hear her gasps, her groans, her moans.

  Marley—underneath me.

  Marley—wet and waiting for me.

  I let my cock roll with that, pumping, squeezing, stroking till I’m leaking cum between my fingers and my balls are drawn up hard and tight. Then and only then do I recall the picture of her stretched out on her back, with her arms above her head and my fingers plunging into her tight cunt. The way her eyes flipped open and her mouth rounded as she looked up at me. The way her eyes squeezed shut as my thumb found her clit and gave a careful little stroke. And Marley moaned as if she wanted it. She moaned because she wanted it. I put my slicked-up finger in her virgin asshole, and she groaned, grunted, and soaked my other hand—because she wanted it.

  I know I’m damned to hell, because the money shot, the memory that tightens my strained cock and lifts my balls until I’m right there at the edge, panting and leaning on the shower wall—that memory is the one of Marley peeking up at me through heavy eyelids, wrapped up in my sheets, saying, “Are you okay?”

  In my mind’s eye, I see her tongue over her lips and I can read the offer on her face. Can I take care of you?

  I suck a steamy breath into my lungs and picture pushing my cock down her throat until she gags and coughs. I see her red and teary eyes as she peeks up at me from on her knees. And she can’t run. And she can’t run like that.

  Marley

  I’ve never looked before, but when I do, I see that there’s a lock down near the bottom of the door inside my living room—the one that leads into the rest of the upstairs, the part of Fendall House that isn’t my apartment. I find, when I look, after dinner with my mom, that all it takes to get into his square footage would just be one slip of a bolt.

  What would I do?

  Maybe I’d pull off my shirt, unclasp my bra, and go downstairs in just my dress pants and my white coat. Would he like that? Would he like me naked underneath my coat? I think if I did that, I’d wear my stethoscope. I would press it to his chest and drag it down, along the happy trail between his chiseled abs. Down, down, down…until I reached the elastic of his boxer-briefs, and then I’d pull those back and ease my stehascope inside.

  I can hear your heartbeat, I would whisper, but I need to be sure you’re completely healthy.

  I imagine his heavy balls in my hands. I would tug them, maybe even lick them. I would run my hand all up and down his long and veiny shaft, around his plump and ruddy head, until he got so hard he groaned and slumped down on the couch. (What couch? But there’s a couch. Why can’t there be a couch?)

  He’d sit there with his legs spread—hard, muscular legs, dusted with hair—and I would bounce his balls on my palm, tugging and rolling as my other hand worked his cock until he started panting.

  And then I’d gobble up the head and as much of the shaft as I could take, and I would fist the base and suck and swallow, hum and rub my lips all up and down him. And he would think, Goddamn. She’s like a porn star. No—he wouldn’t think. Because he would be groaning, his tense legs squeezing around my shoulders.

  He’d be putty in my hands.

  I cry out on that image, coming on my favorite toy, underneath my covers, just past two AM.

  That’s why I’m awake when the phone rings.

  4

  Marley

  I park my car at 5:50 AM and lean my head against the driver’s seat headrest. I’m so freaking tired, I don’t want to move, not even to walk upstairs to my bed. Ugh. I’ve got that gross, off-kilter feeling: stress and worry pressing on my chest, and I know there’s not a damn thing I can do about it.

  Somehow, mom picked up some kind of respiratory thing. They didn’t have the tests back when I headed home, but I think it’s the flu. Which makes me feel even shittier. I’ve had a flu shot, but I didn’t think to get her one—mostly because she almost never leaves her house. I’ve had a flu shot, but I’m around sick kids all day—and some days I end at my mother’s house.

  So…yeah.

  She’s in the tiny, eight-bed ICU at Fate’s hospital—a branch of a larger one headquartered in Birmingham—but if she doesn’t improve soon, they’ll have to transfer her somewhere.

  COPD and the flu is no joke. I rub my forehead. Why the hell did I not get her a shot? It’s true that it’s not really flu season yet, but it’s close enough.

  Zach is off today, so he stayed with her, so I could get an hour or two of sleep before it’s time for me to go to work. And I have to go to work. I’ve got a full calendar, including several special kids who can’t just be passed off to someone else. A four-year-old with a newly diagnosed heart defect, awaiting surgery that’s going to happen after Thanksgiving. An 18-month-old former micro-preemie needing the Synagis shot to protect her lungs from RSV. And…a newborn. A three-day-old girl.

  So it’s with that thought in my head—the image of a soft, sweet, wrinkled little love bug, swaddled in something pink and lacy—and a lead weight in my heart, that I step out of the car and head toward the stairs.

  Where I see a shadow at the bottom.

  I let out a yelp that puffs into a white cloud in the bluing darkness. Then he’s standing up, and something hot flares in my belly.

  “Hey,” I murmur, tucking my jacket closer around me. I try to gauge his expression, but his face is masked by shadows. “What’s going on?” I try for casual, but my voice cracks. My heart’s po
unding so hard, it might flop right out my mouth.

  Gabe shrugs his big shoulders, striking a casual pose in what I now see is a running outfit. “Went for a run and dropped my keys somewhere.”

  “Oh no…”

  He shifts a little, giving me a better view of his face. I can see his eyes run over me. “You okay?”

  I bite my lip, surprised to feel the sting of tears in my eyes. “Yeah. My mom is in the hospital.”

  “Ah, fuck.”

  I nod. “Apparently she got the flu. Probably from me.” I exhale roughly, hugging myself, and Gabe shakes his head.

  “You don’t know that.”

  “I basically do. She barely ever leaves her house, and I don’t think anyone else around her has been sick.”

  “Have you?”

  “Well…no. But I’ve had the flu shot. Germs can come in on clothes and things like that.”

  “It wasn’t your fault,” he says, and it makes my head spin that we’re even standing here talking about something like this: just two neighbors exchanging niceties on a cold morning.

  “Well, anyway, she has lung disease. So if she doesn’t improve, they’ll be moving her to a bigger place tomorr— today.”

  He shakes his head slightly, and I can see his mouth in a thin line. “You up there all night?”

  “Since like three or so. Maybe two-thirty. Yeah. My brother has the day off tomorrow, so he stayed.”

  Gabe nods, rubbing his hands together out in front of him—and I realize he must be cold. Like the other day, he’s wearing shorts, this time with a long-sleeved thermal-looking shirt.

  I give a soft laugh that I hope sounds low-key. “How long have you been out here? I’m surprised you didn’t break a window.”

  He arches a brow, and I laugh, high and awkward. “No. I didn’t mean it like that. I’m just saying—I would have.”

  “Would you?” he says in a tone I can’t read.

  “Yes. It’s really cold out here.”

  “Just forty.”

  “Forty is kind of cold. Come on…” I wave toward my door, and he turns toward the top of the stairs. I move past him, quick and careful. “So when did you run?”

  “Little while ago,” he says in that low voice. I notice for the first time that he still sounds Southern sometimes. Just on certain words.

  I give him a small smile as I open my door. “You still sound like an Alabama boy sometimes, despite all your traveling.”

  “That’s what I hear,” he says, as I push the door open.

  We step inside my place, which smells like the cinnamon broom I bought the other day and looks a little messy.

  “Pardon the mess.”

  “Eh. Mine’s worse.”

  In the light, his cheeks are furiously red, his hair dried at a funny angle, and I wonder when he really left for his run and why he’d run at night to start with.

  “I remember that,” I smirk. As soon as I do, he gives me a look of warning, but it quickly turns smirky, too.

  We’re teasing…

  “Hey, you know what they say about a clean house.”

  “What?” I glance around my place, trying to assess its cleanliness.

  He gives me a sideways grin. “A sluggish mind.”

  I sock him in the arm without thinking. Gabe holds up his hands. “Hey now, don’t be getting violent with me.”

  I smile as I lead him toward the locked door in the back corner. “Or what?” I whisper.

  All hint of a smile falls off his face as he blinks at me. “Mar, don’t ask me that.”

  I swallow.

  He stops and looks me dead in the eye. His face is grave. “Don’t ask me anything like that.”

  “Or what?”

  His eyes flash with heat that’s quickly snuffed out. He nods toward the door. “Is this the one?”

  “I saw a little lock there at the bottom.”

  We reach the door, and I nod down at it. Gabe kneels pressing on the tiny rod. “Inadequate.”

  “You think?”

  His blue gaze flickers up at me. “Of course.”

  “You mean like if she rented the rest of the house to someone dangerous?”

  He unlocks the door and stands slowly, and when he looks at me, my heart doesn’t just flip—it outright stops for half a second, making me feel weak and shaky as it throbs back to its normal rhythm. “Yes,” he says softly. “If someone…untrustworthy was on the other side.”

  “She wouldn’t do that. She knows you.”

  He blinks. “Does she, though?”

  “What do you mean?” I whisper.

  He shrugs. “Oh—you know. How well does anyone know anyone?” He looks—and sounds—so casual, I almost don’t notice. The way his hand is fisted at his side. I see it as he steps through the doorway, into the square-ish hall around the staircase.

  “Gabe?” The whisper leaves my mouth without permission.

  He turns partway toward me, lifts both brows. I swallow hard. “Are you okay?”

  He’s not expecting that. I know because his blue eyes flare, and then they burn. “What do you mean, Marley?”

  “Are you…you know…are you doing okay?”

  “No,” he says simply.

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Are you?”

  My lips quiver just slightly. I press them together. “Yes. Of course I am. Why do you ask like that?”

  He shakes his head. His hands are in his pockets. “Thank you, Marley.” He nods.

  “Gabe?”

  “Yes, Marley?”

  I swallow hard. “I missed you. Between then and now.” His face is statue still; I fumble over my words. “I’m sorry if it’s inappropriate to say. I just…I wanted you to know. I never wanted it to end like that.”

  His face hardens, and I realize my error. “I left because I was just…young and scared. Maybe the age part doesn’t matter. I was scared, though. And stupid, at the time. All the time after that, I really regretted it and wished I could go back. Give it another go. I know it doesn’t matter now. I’m rambling—because I’m nervous. Because of what happened.” Heat sweeps my cheeks. I feel like I’m eighteen again.

  “What happened?” he says softly.

  “You know.”

  He blinks. “Say it.”

  “Last night,” I rasp.

  “Last night what?” The words are hard-edged—almost cruel.

  “Last night we got together.”

  “And?” He steps a little closer.

  “You—you know. Pleasured me, I guess.”

  A little closer now, as if my words are beckoning.

  “Were you? Were you pleasured?”

  “Yes.” I inhale audibly. “I was.”

  His eyes look, for once, more gray than blue: a stranger’s eyes in a strange, beautiful face, so much sharper, so much swarthier, than the Gabe I knew. He blinks, and his face slackens—an ordinary man, just back from running.

  “Good,” he says.

  I watch as he moves down the stairs, feeling like a beggar in the presence of a king.

  5

  Marley

  Mom’s condition improves. She isn’t sent to Birmingham or Montgomery, but home, after four days, and I go with her for the first night. It isn’t something I’m happy about, but I do my best to keep that from her, because it isn’t her fault she’s so weak. She needs someone on hand for when she needs to get up, and it’s only fair that it be me. Zach is seeing someone up in Auburn; after spending two of Mom’s three nights in the hospital with her, he wanted to go see the girl—he told me this blushing adorably—so here I am. Standing on the back porch looking at the moon, which peeks out from behind a gauze haze of clouds.

  It rained today, and so the yard is gross and soggy. The leaves, dry and curling as they rot atop the grass, hold little bits of water, gleaming bright white in the moon’s glow. I draw my hand that holds the baby monitor close to my chest and blow my breath out, long and warm and white. It feels so clean out here—the air do
es. Fall to me has always felt like a baptism of some kind: the rich, warm, summer self is chilled and shriveled, at the mercy of some source of heat. My jacket always feels so cozy. I enjoy the seasonal drinks and buy myself a brightly colored pair of gloves, a new one every year. I snuggle in and sort of like the feeling that I’m at the mercy of the heater, fire, my warm, thick coat. I think I like the warming of my cold self. Something about it—it feels pure—the need inherent there.

  I suck another sharp breath in and take my time blowing it out. There’s a reason that I’m out here. That I can’t stay in, enjoying the heat or a blanket.

  That reason has a name. That name is Gabe.

  I rub my chapsticked lips together, shove my hands into my coat pockets. The moon loses to the clouds, and dark spreads over my mom’s tiny yard.

  I think I feel…bereft.

  It’s been five days, and I want more.

  Such blasphemy to even think that thought. So much insanity. I am insane. I must be insane. What I think about the most right now as I drift off to sleep, or when I first wake up, is just Gabe in those thick, gray, cotton running shorts. The way his knees and lower legs looked, and the shoes on his feet. I think about his hair, dried funky from sweating and sitting in the cold. I think about his shoulders, big enough to be a force all of their own; his body, god-like.

  I wonder about him. If he has so much restraint—if he can come into my house with me and stand so close to me there at the top of the stairs—if he can look almost right through me as I tell him I have always loved him, I still love him—and then walk away like it is nothing—like what he did to me the one night was nothing—what happened to break him down so that the day I knocked on his front door, he let me in? What must have happened to break him open? What broke Gabe’s heart? What would make him need someone so much that he let me in?

  Because it’s clear he sort of hates me now.

  I feel quite sure he hates me. I don’t even know how I know, I just do. I can feel it coming off him. Hate and want, resentment, unforgiveness. If I remember right, I think he told me the night of my birthday that he didn’t hold my leaving against me, but…he does. I think he does, at least a little bit. I’m getting mixed signals from him, and I’m confused. I’m so confused.