by Bec Linder
“Fuck,” Sadie said, and raised her hands to her hair, patting her braids back into place. “Okay. What were we doing?”
“Dessert,” I said. “Bowls.”
“Right,” she said. “Okay. We’re eating ice cream. Fuck. Stop laughing at me, you asshole. Regan can smell guilt. She’ll know exactly what we’ve been doing.”
“This sounds like paranoia to me,” I said, and she made a face and grabbed the stack of bowls from the counter.
We went back into the dining room. My erection had subsided enough that I didn’t think it would be immediately obvious what we had been up to in the kitchen, but Carter shot me a sidelong glance and a smirk that told me my cover was blown. He and Regan were meddling, matchmaking thorns in my side. This little dinner party was no accident, and I was sure they would chortle to themselves later over how well their plan had worked out.
Well. Let them be smug, then. I would be smug, too, nailing Sadie through the mattress.
“Ice cream?” Regan asked, innocent as anything.
Dessert was an exercise in torment. Sadie ate her ice cream like she was sucking off her spoon. It had to be deliberate. Nobody was that innocent or that oblivious.
Carter was saying something to me. I turned toward him, trying to look like I had been paying attention. “…next time, but I told her to expect the price to keep dropping.”
I mentally rewound the conversation. Stocks. Carter was talking about investments. Right. I drew in a breath and tried to think of something marginally insightful to say.
Across the table from me, Sadie smirked and licked her spoon.
I had obviously entered some quantum space, a time dilation zone where dinner would drag on, interminably, until the eventual heat death of the universe.
I gritted my teeth and poured myself a glass of wine.
When the ice cream was gone, and the wine bottle was empty, Regan and Carter walked us both to the front door. “Let me call my driver,” Carter said. “It’s late.”
“It’s 9:00,” Sadie said. “The subway isn’t as terrible as you imagine.”
“I’ll walk Sadie to the subway station, since I believe we’re both heading to 23rd Street,” I said. “So you mother hens don’t have to worry.”
“Oh, we do fuss a lot, don’t we?” Regan asked. “I guess we’re so used to worrying about the baby that we’ve started worrying about everyone.”
“Fortunately, Sadie and I are both potty-trained and even know how to feed ourselves,” I said, smiling at Regan to show that I wasn’t upset by her concern. “Thank you for a lovely evening.”
Sadie embraced Regan and Carter in turn and zipped her coat up to her chin. Then she looked up at me and said, “Ready to go?”
The weather was milder than it had been in some time—a brief taste of spring before winter returned again, no doubt with a vengeance. Sadie and I walked in silence for several blocks. I glanced at her, and she was looking up at the sky, her head tipped back.
“Look at the moon,” she said, pointing.
I stopped in the middle of the sidewalk and folded my arms across my chest. “Sadie,” I said, “I don’t give a shit about the moon.”
She had walked ahead a few steps, but she turned at that and came back toward me, a question on her face.
I didn’t give myself time to reconsider. I said the words. “Come home with me.”
EIGHTEEN
Sadie
Elliott’s apartment was in Midtown, not far from the office. We behaved ourselves on the sidewalk, and in the cab he insisted on hailing, and in the lobby of the building, but as soon as we were in the elevator, he pressed me against the wall panel and kissed me.
There was no room for thought, only sensation. With his hands resting on the wall above my head, his unbuttoned coat lapped around me, engulfing me in his scent of cologne and wool. His beard stubble prickled against my face, and his mouth was a warm, soft counterpoint. Not a gentle one, though: he was greedy, demanding, taking what he wanted, and I shivered and surrendered to him.
If I was going to make a terrible life decision, I might as well go all out.
The elevator doors opened with a ding.
I stumbled a step back, flushing. Elliott had a special talent for making me blush like a schoolgirl, and I was grateful—not for the first time—that he wouldn’t be able to tell. If I was as pale as he was, I would really be in trouble.
An old woman waiting outside the elevator clucked her tongue and gave us a disapproving look as we emerged from the elevator, Elliott’s hand enfolding mine. I expected him to ignore her and keep walking, but instead he flashed her a shit-eating grin and said, “How’s your evening going, Mrs. Jefferson?”
“I know your father, young man,” she said, like the archetypal Disapproving Old Lady, her face pinched with distaste as she looked me up and down.
“Kindly get in touch with him and report on my activities,” Elliott said. “I’m sure he’ll be delighted to hear what I’m up to.” He started moving again, towing me down the hallway with him, and when we were almost-but-not-quite out of earshot, he muttered, “Meddling old bat.”
I laughed, looking over my shoulder to see Mrs. Jefferson still standing there scowling. “Does she really know your father?”
“Highly unlikely,” Elliott said, “given that she lives in this shit-heap of a building. My father doesn’t associate with the peasantry.” He stopped in front of a nondescript door and fished his keys from his pocket. “But let’s not talk about her anymore.” He unlocked the door and crowded behind me to nudge me inside, his chest pressed against my back.
His apartment was small, one open room with the bed shoved up against a window, but I didn’t have time for more than a quick glance before he hustled me inside and tumbled me down onto the mattress.
“Hey now, who says I’m that kind of girl?” I asked.
He just rolled his eyes and bent his head to kiss me.
After a moment, I raised my arms and wrapped them around his back.
It was absurd: the two of us still in our coats and shoes, making out on his messy bed like horny teenagers. I wanted to feel his skin against mine, but I also didn’t want to stop kissing him long enough to strip off our clothes. I felt drunk on his kisses. He moved a hand to cup my jaw and hold me in place while he explored my mouth, and maybe I should have done something other than lie there like a limp rag, but I couldn’t feel my toes and the rest of my body was tingling so much that it was hard to do anything but wallow in the sensation.
But I wanted more, and so I lifted my shaking hands and slid them beneath his coat. Better, but there were still too many layers of fabric between us. I tugged at his sweater, lifting up the hem, and beneath that he was wearing a t-shirt. I turned my head to the side, breaking our kiss, and said, “That’s it. You need to take all of this off.”
He laughed and rolled off me, which wasn’t what I wanted. I made a protesting noise, and he kissed me again and said, “Let me at least get up to take off my coat.”
“I guess that’s acceptable,” I said. God, my hair was a mess. All of me was a mess. I was so wet just from kissing that I was pretty sure I would have to throw away my underpants.
He sat up on the edge of the bed took off his coat and shoes. I hoped he would keep going, but instead he lay down again and pulled me toward him, unzipping my coat and pretending to peek inside. “How many layers are you wearing?”
“Not as many as you,” I shot back. “It’s cold out. It’s January.”
“Likewise,” he said. “What was it you said? All of this needs to go.”
I wasn’t about to wriggle around on the bed trying to peel off my jeans. Too undignified. I got up and took off my own coat and shoes, and then hesitated. He was lying there looking at me, calm and a little amused, expectant, like there was no doubt in his mind that I was about to get naked and he fully intended to enjoy the show.
I wasn’t sure how I felt about him lying back and watching me strip.
>
Good? Bad? Somewhere in between?
“Take off your shirt,” he said.
His voice was soft, but there was a commanding edge to it that made me shiver. He sounded like a man who was accustomed to getting his way.
“Are you just going to watch me?” I asked.
“Yes,” he said, and moved one hand to rest on his crotch, right on top of the bulge of his cock. Yeah, I was looking.
I flushed again and glanced away, turned on despite myself. “If you want to watch porn, you can just watch some porn.”
“You’re better than porn,” he said, actually unbuttoning his pants, because he was completely shameless. “Because you’re real, and here, and you’re going to make some incredible noises for me before the night is over.”
“Oh, am I?” I asked. God, he was cocky. “What makes you so sure?”
He smirked at me. “It’s simple. You won’t be able to help yourself.”
Who was this arrogant, aggressive man and what had he done with Elliott? But I wouldn’t lie to myself: I liked it.
Before I could let myself over-think the situation and get all freaked out, I grabbed the hem of my shirt and pulled it over my head.
Elliott drew in a sharp breath.
I dropped my shirt on the floor and fought the urge to cover my breasts with my hands. At least I was wearing a sexy bra. My faded, sagging underpants were another story entirely. Sex had been the last thing on my mind when I got dressed for dinner. Maybe I could make up an excuse to go to the bathroom, and finishing getting naked in there.
“Keep going,” Elliott said, and I thought he probably wouldn’t want to hear any of my excuses.
With shaking hands, I unbuttoned my jeans.
My breath was coming fast and shallow. My nipples were hard, sensitive points inside my bra. And something about the way Elliott was watching me—smug, predatory—made me want to fall to the floor and beg him to fuck me. I couldn’t explain it. I was a rational, cynical, thoroughly modern woman. I didn’t have any interest in that caveman stuff: club woman on head, drag back to cave, make babies. But Elliott short-circuited every one of my higher mental processes, and being with him like this, half-naked and three feet away from his bed, was more than my lizard brain could handle. I wanted him on top of me, and now.
I shoved my jeans down my thighs.
Elliott groaned, and slid his hand inside his unzipped fly. Watching him touch himself gave me an erotic thrill. Here I was, nobody special, and a rich, gorgeous man was so into me taking my clothes off that he couldn’t keep his hands off his dick.
If nothing else, the guy knew how to make a lady feel good about herself.
“Sadie, you’re killing me,” he said, and I realized I was standing there like a fool, pants at my knees and my terrible underpants on full display. I hastily shoved them down, so eager to hide the faded floral print and fraying elastic from Elliott’s view that I forgot about the unavoidable end result of taking off my panties: I was totally exposed.
Oh, God.
To be honest, it felt amazing.
“Now your bra,” Elliott said, his hand moving, ever so slightly, inside his trousers.
After the underpants, the bra was nothing. I reached behind my back and unhooked the clasp, and drew the straps down my arms. I held one hand against my chest to keep the cups in place, half teasing, half nervous, until Elliott said, “Now, Sadie,” and I let my hand fall away.
The way he looked at me—oh, Lord.
Like I was the only woman he’d ever seen.
I knew I wasn’t bad-looking. I worked out a lot, and I had a decent body, small tits and flat ass notwithstanding. But the way Elliott’s lips parted, and the slow flush that spread upward from the hollow of his throat—well, it was pretty flattering. If he was doing it on purpose, it was working.
“All right,” he said. “As much as I enjoy watching you, I’m going to enjoy it much more when you get on this bed with me.”
I felt like I should sass him a little, make him work for it, but I just could not be bothered. I wanted to feel his hands on me. Screw dignity. It was overrated.
I left my clothes in a heap on the floor and joined him on the bed.
“That’s more like it,” he said, sitting up from his lazy slouch, and then he seized me by the waist and rolled me onto my back.
And then he just sat there and looked down at me.
I met his gaze, feeling a little self-conscious and trying not to. His pupils were wide and dark, and he was flushed pink, his hair in disarray, the neckline of his sweater crumpled. “Are you my Christmas present?” I asked.
That startled a laugh out of him. “Christmas was a month ago,” he said.
“And Valentine’s Day is coming up,” I said. “Maybe Cupid sent you to me in advance. I must have been very, very good.”
“Sadie,” he murmured, leaning down, “I was actually hoping to hear that you’ve been very, very bad.”
He kissed me, and all my weird nervousness, the jittery energy that kept sparking across my skin—it dropped away like a radio shutting off. With Elliott kissing me, there was no room for anything else. Our bodies knew how to fit together. Our mouths met, and his lips spoke a language I thought I had forgotten.
“Sadie,” he groaned, trailing his mouth down my neck, his stubble scraping against my skin and making me squirm with delight. His hands came up to cover my breasts, squeezing roughly, his thumbs sliding across my nipples, and I felt my back arch off the bed. I was hungry. My skin was hungry for his. I wanted him.
His mouth moved lower, down to the thin-skinned hollow between my collarbones, down to the bony flat of my sternum, and then down lower to take one of my nipples between his teeth.
The noise I made was barely human.
He chuckled, and I felt it as a vibration, his chest quaking where it pressed against my thigh. “Don’t laugh at me,” I gasped.
He pulled away enough to speak. “Not at,” he said. “With? Nearby?” His breath gusted against my nipple, a cruel tease, and I took his head in my hands and guided him back to where I wanted him.
He was definitely laughing at me.
I didn’t care. He was expert, casual, using his teeth enough to provide a delicious contrast to his wet tongue, but not enough to cause actual pain. He moved from one breast to the other, sucking and licking, and the heat between my legs grew and spread and made me squirm against him, desperate for some relief. When I couldn’t wait anymore, I slid one hand between my thighs, ready to take matters into my own hands. So to speak.
Without moving away from my breast, Elliott seized my wrist in one hand and pinned it to the mattress.
“You are the worst person I know,” I said.
He laughed at me again, the bastard. But he stopped sucking on my nipple and rolled to one side, trapping my pinned arm beneath his body, and trailed his free hand up the inside of my thigh.
I was afraid to blink, afraid to take a breath or do anything else that would cause him to stop.
But he stopped anyway, inches short of where I needed him, and said, “I take it there’s something you want me to do.”
I could have sobbed. I didn’t understand how he was so cool and collected when I was made out of wildfire, ready to burn everything I touched to the ground. “Elliott,” I said, frustrated, desperate.
“What’s that?” he asked, all fake concern. “Do you want something?”
“Touch me,” I wailed.
And he finally, finally did.
I expected him to tease me some more, but instead, he gave me exactly what I wanted: two fingers pressed inside of me, long and sure, and his thumb rolling carelessly over my clit, a little rough and exactly right. My hips shuddered upward, a helpless, automatic motion, and he clicked his tongue at me and said, “Now, now. Can’t have you getting too excited.”
“I thought that was the point,” I said, voice ragged.
“Oh, there’s going to be plenty of excitement,” he said, “but not
just yet.” He moved his fingers, twisting them inside me, and I gasped and clutched at his sweater. “Hmm,” he said. “On second thought.”
“Please,” I said, desperate for release, desperate for this ecstatic torture to come to an end.
“No, I think I’ll make you wait a little longer,” he said, and took his glorious fingers away and slid off the bed.
I made a pitiful whimper.
“Hush, I’m coming right back,” he said, and tugged his sweater over his head.
Oh. This was interesting.
He wasn’t slow or methodical about stripping. He yanked his clothes off like he couldn’t wait to be naked, and I realized that he was probably just as eager as I was, just hiding it better. He wanted me to think he was totally in control, but his trembling hands and the eager, clumsy way he fumbled with his trousers gave him away.
And somehow that was even better than Elliott Sloane, Icy Sex God. I liked him real, overwhelmed, and with me. We were in this together. We were all in.
I ogled him as much as I could in the forty-five seconds it took him to get naked. Clothes didn’t do him justice, I decided. He was hiding some serious muscles beneath those fancy suits he liked so much. His broad, freckled back rippled with each motion. Nice shoulders, nice arms. And—when he slid off his boxer-briefs—a surprisingly nice ass.
100% American grass-fed beef.
“What are you laughing at?” he asked me, naked, hands on his hips, cock hanging thick and heavy between his thighs.
“You don’t want to know,” I said, still ogling. “Not you. I would never laugh at that weapon of mass destruction you’re armed with.”
He smirked at me, obviously pleased. Men always liked it when you talked about how big their dicks were. Most of the time it was a polite exaggeration. Not with Elliott, though. That thing meant business. “Do you always talk this much during sex?”
“I talk this much during life,” I said.
“I’ll take it as a sign that I’m not working hard enough at distracting you,” he said, and came back to bed.
After that there was no more hesitation, no more fooling around. He settled between my legs and kissed me deeply, his hands running across my body like I was known territory, a country he had already claimed. We worked together to roll a condom onto his cock, and then he seized a fistful of my hair and pulled my head back, tipping my chin up to force me to meet his eyes.
