Hostile Attractions

by Raleigh Davis

  I shake my head. “It’s not about the money. It’s power. He’s already bought everything he wants, which honestly isn’t much.” Arne never flashed his wealth. After the first few billion, I don’t think he even kept track. “But having a government—an entire government—under your thumb? That’s what he wants. Governments, people, the entire world: he wants it all under his control.”

  Elliot’s hand curls into a fist on the coverlet. It’s only inches from my thigh. “You shouldn’t have worked on the facial-recognition program,” he says. He’s quiet, serious. “But Fuchs is evil. There’s more than enough blame to go around.” When he looks at me again, it spears me, but in a different way. “You’re not evil. I thought you were, but you’re not.”

  “Not evil doesn’t mean innocent.”

  “No.”

  I exhale, my lungs emptying in a relieved rush. That’s what I need to hear. Not that I’m a good person, that what I did was okay in the end… but that I’m not completely irredeemable. Coming from him, a person who used to think I was evil, makes it mean so much more.

  “Thank you.” I put all my sincerity in my gaze. I… I open myself to him. Even the bad parts. Especially the bad parts.

  He shrugs one shoulder. It should be dismissive, but on him, since he’s so reserved, it’s endearing. Like he’s feeling too raw to give a full shrug. “Are you feeling better?”

  So we’re done with my confessions. It’s good, because I’m suddenly exhausted. Completely drained. But in a good way.

  “Yeah. Thanks for the food. And feeding me.”

  His fist on the coverlet opens. His fingers are long, thick, his palm broad. It’s a hand that would have fit well on a farmer or a construction worker. Someone needing strength to get through their day-to-day work. It fits him well too.

  “No problem.” He ducks his head, clears his throat. “You’ve had a rough time.” When he gets up from the bed, the pressure on my thighs releases. “I’ll take care of the tray. Do you want to sleep more?”

  A question instead of an order. I guess all I had to do to soften him up was bare my deepest, darkest secrets. “I think I will.”

  He nods. “Call me if you need anything. I’ll just be downstairs.”

  I’m tempted to ask if he’ll be sleeping up here again. But I don’t. “Thanks.”

  And then he’s gone.

  Chapter 16

  When I wake up the next morning—thirteen hours of sleep, a new record for me—I immediately know that Elliot hasn’t been in the bed. The coverlet is neatly tucked around me, no wrinkles, and I’m smack-dab in the middle of the bed. No room even on the edges for a big, surly, handsome-as-hell lawyer.

  I’m not disappointed. I just feel bad that he had to sleep on the couch again.

  Before I go down to see him though… I cock my head and listen for any movement from downstairs. It’s quiet. Completely so. Looks like Elliot doesn’t snore.

  As stealthily as I can, I slip out of bed and start going through the book cabinet. I pull out the e-reader carefully, not making a single noise. I’ve even stopped breathing.

  I switch it on, wait impatiently for it to power up. Come on, come on, come on.

  I glance at the stairs, but it’s still quiet. Just needs to stay like that until I check my email.

  The email window pops up. Quickly I scroll through, but there’s nothing from Deena. I shouldn’t feel abandoned—I was gone for five years, and it’s only been a few days since I contacted her—but I do. It’s also sadness about Reagan. Just a bad mix.

  And then I come across the next email. Interested. Pls send more.

  It’s from the journalist. And he wants to see some of what I have so he can verify it.

  I set the e-reader down and stare at the message. It’s a sign. My friends aren’t answering, but the journalist is.

  I have to go it alone. The way I have been the entire time.

  Except I can’t access the drive. Not from this rinky-dink e-reader. Crap. I’m going to need Elliot’s laptop.

  But he’s not going to leave me alone with it. I’m going to have to come up with some excuse to look at the drive, then send something to the journalist without Elliot knowing. It can be done, but I’ll have to think about how to make it happen.

  First I need a shower. I’ve been sweating out this sickness, and I’m sticky with it. Ugh.

  The shower products Anjie brought over smell amazing. I can feel the ickiness washing away. I feel human again.

  There’s lotion too and some face cream and a comb. When I’m done, my skin is bare and clean, my hair still wet but long and loose. It’s almost like I’ve been reborn.

  But I’m not one hundred percent well. My head holds the echo of a headache, and my limbs are weak. But my head is clear. And I’m starving for something beyond soup. So I’m heading downstairs.

  I go through the clothes Anjie brought, looking for something comfortable. Most of what she included is what I would have worn as Minerva—structured suits, severe dresses, tailored pants. None of which I want to wear now.

  But she also put in some pajamas and yoga gear. I wore a slouchy shirt and yoga pants while I was sick, which have to be washed now, but there should be something similar in there.

  The second my hand closes on the silky fabric, I know this is the one. It turns out to be a set of jewel-blue pajamas, menswear style, but in a slick, slinky fabric that’s decadent beyond words. Everything will be covered, but when it’s covered by something like this…

  These pajamas might be too suggestive, but after everything I’ve been through, I want to feel pretty and comfortable. Besides, I’m not going to taunt Elliot about his cock in my mouth, so he won’t be tempted to kiss me.

  I take a moment to check out my reflection before I head down. The blue makes my eyes take on gold tones, and the dark brown of my hair doesn’t look so boring. I never wore colors like this when I was Minerva, and seeing myself in them again… it gets me a little choked up.

  Before I can completely dissolve into tears, I go downstairs.

  Elliot is laid out on the couch. There’s no other way to describe it. He’s on his stomach, one leg hanging off, looking like he fell face-first into that position. He’s definitely not reserved or controlled when he sleeps. He’s in a T-shirt and sweats and…

  I do a double take. I think that’s the exact shirt and pants I was wearing earlier. But maybe not.

  The last step creaks when my foot hits it. Elliot snaps upright, his eyes wide.

  I stop. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to scare you.”

  He blinks, pushing himself to a sitting position. “I’m not scared.”

  “Oh, excuse me. Startled.”

  He gives me a look that says he doesn’t appreciate the sarcasm. Probably needs to wake up a little more before he can fully savor it.

  “How are you feeling?” He runs his hands through his hair as he asks, pushing it away from his face. It falls in deep waves, almost curls.

  “Um.” It’s hard not to focus on his hair. And his fingers running through it. “Fine. I had a shower, and I feel much better.” I point up to the bathroom through the ceiling. “You probably heard me.”

  I’m babbling. Why am I babbling? I never used to do this, not ever. He loosens something in me.

  Elliot grunts as he pushes up off the couch. “I did. What time is it?” He checks his watch, which manages to be both sleek and heavy.

  The curtains are closed, but I can see through the cracks that the sky is dark. I must have slept all evening.

  My stomach rumbles. Of course he hears it.

  “I guess it’s dinnertime.” He walks into the kitchen, blocking my path to the living room. “I have more soup.”

  I make a face. “Can I get something more… real?”

  “Soup is good for you.” He pulls out a can.

  “Are you a doctor now?”

  “You just can’t stop arguing, can you?” he growls.

  I sit down on the step. “I do
n’t think there’s any real evidence that soup cures anything. And I’m feeling better anyway.”

  His mouth flattens. He’s probably pondering force-feeding me again. “How about some grilled cheese?”

  “You can make that?” At his look, I say quickly, “It sounds amazing.”

  As he assembles and cooks it, he keeps glancing at me. “You got new clothes.”

  There’s a deep undercurrent in his voice that snares my attention. “Yeah. Anjie brought them.”

  He looks like he wants to say more. Instead, he just keeps stealing glances every chance he gets. It’s… nice. He was attracted to me before, back when he hated me, but this is different. Purer.

  I’m not going to encourage it, but I can enjoy it. And I can enjoy watching him as he works. His loose clothes can’t hide the strength and grace in his body. He flips the sandwich with practiced motions, carefully checking the browning on each side. He’s serious about his grilled cheese.

  “If it burns, I’ll eat it and make you a new one,” he says. “You’re watching me like you’re worried.”

  “No.” I hug my knees to my chest. I’m not the only one caught looking it seems. “You’re my only entertainment.”

  He snorts. “Poor you.” He slides the sandwich on a plate, hands it to me. “Go sit at the table.”

  I do, tearing into the sandwich as he makes himself one. It’s delicious, hot and gooey with just the right amount of crispy butteriness. After a day spent sick in bed, it’s the perfect recipe for recovery.

  He eats his sandwich at the counter, which is a slight disappointment. But I understand that he wants his space. I’ve invaded here, and he’s used to being alone.

  “Thanks,” I say as I carry my plate to the sink. “For all of it.”

  He finishes off his last bite. “I’m not used to taking care of somebody who’s sick.”

  “I’m not used to being sick.” I take a seat on the couch, tucking one leg under my butt. “I need to access my drive.”

  I’ve decided to tackle the issue head-on. The drive belongs to me and I can use it. Simple as that.

  He goes stiff. “I can’t let you do that.”

  “What?” I get up, grab the drive. It’s been sitting between us on the coffee table the entire time. “It’s mine.”

  “So go ahead.” He props a hip against the countertop, lifts a lazy hand. “Open it up. No one’s stopping you.”

  “Very funny. You know I need your laptop to do it. Which you won’t give me.”

  He cocks his head in acknowledgment. “We can’t let you back into that drive.”

  We?

  Ah, the Bastards told him not to let me touch it. When he went in today, they all put their heads together and schemed on this. About thwarting me.

  I’m the one who went to all the trouble to get the data, but being typical, insufferable assholes, they’ve decided they’re the ones who own it.

  “So what do you have planned for my data? Do I at least get to know?”

  “Nothing’s planned.” He walks over, puts a large hand over the drive. “No one’s done anything with it.”

  “Right. The rest of them weren’t salivating with glee at the thought of punishing me. You certainly were.”

  The gleam in his eyes stops my breath. “You want to be punished.”

  I pull the drive into my chest, trapping his hand between my breasts. “I do not. I want my drive.”

  “Liar.” His warm breath washes over my face. He flexes his hand and I gasp. “That’s why you came to me.”

  “No,” I protest even as I lift my chest, pressing his hand deeper into me. I’m on fire, my sex aching, and he’s hardly even touched me. It’s been so long, but it’s also him. It’s mostly him.

  With an easy tug, he takes the drive from me. Like taking a toy from a kid, it’s so simple. But the darkness behind his eyes keeps me from protesting.

  He grabs my hip, drags me into him. His eyes are dark, fathomless, his face tense. Like he hates himself for doing this.

  I’d say I know the feeling, but that’s not hate coursing through me. It’s white-hot, molten, but it’s more like frustration. And it’s drawing me like a magnet to him.

  “I don’t want this.” His breath is coming in harsh pulls, his hand tight on my waist. “I don’t want you. But God help me, I can’t stop.”

  “I know.” I run my hands down his chest, thick with muscle. And hair—it’s springy under my palms, like it wants to get at me as much as I want to get at it. “I don’t want this either.”

  He lowers his head and kisses me. There’s no gentleness, only hunger. Desperation. His tongue thrusts into my mouth and I moan.

  This isn’t punishment, but it’s exactly what I wanted. What I needed.

  I fist my hands in his shirt, needing to get it off. All those stupid suits he wears, looking so starchy and sexy, and then coming at me in a plain T-shirt? He meant to drive me insane with lust.

  He helps me get it over his head, releasing me for the barest moment. And then he’s on me again, devouring me with deep, drugging kisses. He’s consuming me, burning away anything that isn’t pure lust.

  I run my hands over his stomach, his sides, his chest. There’s hair everywhere, which I love. He’s bound up in three-piece gray tweed all day, and underneath is this. Wild, feral hair and muscles and hot skin. The next time I see him in a suit, I might just tear it off him.

  One of his hands cups my jaw. His touch is firm, anchoring. He’s not worried about breaking me. Probably because he knows what I’ve already survived.

  His other hand starts to unbutton my pajama top. The buttons slip free with the lightest touch, sliding over the silk as if barely held in place. My breasts are tight, aching, and every rasp of my breath rubs my nipples against that hard wall of chest.

  When the last button is free, he lifts his head and jerks the top down, letting it fall from his hand. “Jesus.” His chest is rising and falling, the tendons in his neck stark. “I love your tits.”

  I almost laugh, because tits? Really? “You are the last person I’d expect to call them tits.”

  Honestly, they’re not my favorite feature. Too small, with dark, prominent nipples. If they were bigger, with pinker, shyer nipples, I wouldn’t mind so much.

  He frowns fiercely as he takes them in both hands. “They’re more beautiful than I even imagined.”

  I swallow hard because he’s playing with my nipples, teasing them into diamond-hard points, and beautiful? And imagined?

  “You hate me,” I whisper. It’s a terrible thought to have in the moment, but I can’t help it.

  He shakes his head. “Not now.”

  I don’t know if he means only while he’s holding my breasts or if he means generally now. And then I don’t care, because he takes one nipple in his mouth.

  He’s bending down to me, suckling me, and it’s amazing. Glorious. He tugs, and every inch of me pulses. But especially in my pussy. That’s becoming one sustained pulse, all this overflow of sensation gathering there.

  I press my thighs tight together, increasing the pressure. Oh God, but that’s good. I run my fingers through his hair, holding on. It’s amazingly soft, and the waves curl around my fingers, tangling me in him.

  My heart swells with something I can’t name at the sight of my hand in his hair.

  He moves to my other breast, giving it the same careful, detailed attention. He licks this way, sucks that way, varies speed and pressure, until I’m delirious with it. Who knew he was so inventive?

  I squeeze my thighs together again. Holy crap, I’m already close, just from him playing with my nipples. That’s never happened before.

  He lifts his head, frowns at me. Man, I never would have thought a frown could be devastating like a smile, but his are. “What’s wrong? You got tense.”

  Heat crawls up my cheeks. “I was… I needed some pressure.”

  A small, wicked smile curves his lips. “Oh do you?”

  He cups me outsid
e my pants, his palm barely grazing my clit. Even that faint touch has me close to exploding. He presses the crotch of my panties into my folds, using the fabric to caress me.

  “So hot,” he murmurs. “Are you wet too?”

  I loop my arms around his neck because otherwise I’m going to fall. I manage to nod.

  “How wet?” He rubs harder. “I want details.”

  Bossy, bossy, bossy. And way filthier than I was expecting. “Pretty wet. I’m… I’m going to soak through these panties soon.”

  His smile is all sharp triumph. “I bet I can make it happen sooner.” His thumb finds my clit and strums.

  My knees give out as lightning stitches through me. My clit was already swollen, aching, and he’s just applied a current straight to it.

  “Hey.” His arm wraps around my waist, catching me. But he doesn’t let up on my clit. “Careful.”

  A snappy remark; that’s what I’m reaching for, but I can’t find one. Seriously, my brain can only produce something like Ungh. Not at all snappy.

  “I’m fine,” I say, although I’m clearly not. My shirt is gone, my legs aren’t working, and if he doesn’t touch my bare pussy in the next two seconds, I’m going to implode. This over-the-clothes tease is killing me.

  He gets the point, touching the skin of my belly first. I gasp, my stomach pulling tight. It’s like sparks of heat dancing between him and me. Like magic.

  And then his hand slips lower. He goes slow, his eyes locked tight with mine.

  There’s amazement, wonder in his gaze. He’s not going slow to torment me—he’s going slow because he’s enjoying the discovery so much.

  When his fingers find my folds, I release a long exhale. He does too.

  “You’re so fucking wet.” It’s praise and shock all at once.

  I feel inordinately pleased, although I haven’t really done anything. It’s all him.

  “So wet,” he whispers again, fingering me with exquisite awareness. “And hot. And soft.”

  He pushes one finger, then two inside me. His fingers twist in some tricky way, and I moan, shoving myself against his hand.

  When he pulls his fingers out of me, I whimper, my arms tightening around his neck. “No.” Normally I’d be appalled at how needy I sound, but I’m beyond caring.