Breaking the Rules
Page 18
“Eed,” he breathed, “I think I might be on the verge of really screwing this up—our new friendship, our impending amicable divorce—”
She didn’t let him finish. She just kissed him.
And on a scale from one to ten, it was completely off the charts.
Eden kissed him as if the world were ending.
Izzy saw it coming, and even though he saw it telegraphed in her eyes, in the way her tongue briefly moistened her lips, he still couldn’t quite believe it. And he certainly didn’t do anything to stop it.
But then, as she kept kissing him, he could believe it, because this was Eden, and she wasn’t just kissing him, she’d actually thrown her leg across him and straddled him—which was possible only because he’d adjusted the seat as far back as it could go and had reclined it quite a bit, too.
And it was very, very clear that she, too, was hell-bent on screwing up their impending amicable divorce. Or maybe she wasn’t. Maybe this was her crazy-ass definition of being amicable.
Either way, it was obvious that they were both extremely willing passengers aboard this particular bad-idea bus. And as she reached between them to verify that that was, indeed, him in all his glory and not the gearshift, he knew that, this time? He wasn’t going to be the one to stop them.
He was done with that.
He’d spent nearly his entire premarriage relationship with Eden slowing her down to an absolute stop, and look at where that had gotten him. Decidedly unfucked for all of his gallant efforts, except for their very brief wedding night. Oh yeah, and except for the ultimate fucking she’d given him shortly thereafter, by walking away.
Now, however, hoh jay-sus, she was simultaneously reaching into his pants even as she pressed and rubbed herself against him, all the while kissing the shit out of him.
His own hands weren’t idle. He’d sent them on an assignment up beneath her T-shirt, to find and unfasten the front clasp of her bra. Her skin was cool and silky, and—mission accomplished—he filled his hands with the unfettered softness of her breasts as she moaned her approval.
She stopped kissing him to pull back slightly, her goal apparent—to unzip and free him from his pants.
His own choices were a) to pull up her shirt so he could kiss and lick the sweet tautness of her nipples into his mouth, or b) to start working to get her out of her jeans. That was going to be quite a task, involving an Olympic-worthy dismount—not to mention the impending awkwardness and self-consciousness that would no doubt come with her being half naked in a fishbowl-like car on a fairly busy suburban street.
True, there was currently no traffic and the streetlamp on the corner had long burned out. The circle of light from Greg and Ivette’s porch lamp didn’t begin to reach them, but still, Izzy was pretty certain that the odds of him actually getting laid right here, right now, were slim to none.
He did not doubt, however, that he was going to get a very lovely BJ, which was fine by him. Fine, that is, by this new, heart-hardened him.
Still, if he had his druthers, he’d prefer the big bang, and he took the optimistic route and unfastened the top button of her jeans, his fingers against the smooth warmth of her stomach. She was wearing jeans with a button fly, so he kept going—and found she was wearing the same red satin thong that she’d worn while stripping.
That discovery was either off-putting or hot, and he decided to let it be hot. And it did, absolutely, make him even harder as he remembered the way she’d moved when she’d danced. Or maybe he was responding to the unobstructed touch of her impossibly soft hands as she finally untangled him from both his pants and briefs.
And there it came—the dismount he’d been expecting. She pulled away completely, leaving him the use of his own hands to recline his seat a bit more, and to push his pants and briefs a bit more down his thighs, away from any impending spill zone.
But when he realized what she was doing—kicking off her right sneaker and pulling her right leg free from her jeans in the age-old sex-in-the-car tradition of not getting completely undressed—he dug for his wallet and the condom he always carried there in the event that he bumped into Veronica Mars and Lieutenant Starbuck from BSG, and they wanted to do him simultaneously.
Or in the event that he bumped into Eden.
He kept that condom there, he had to admit, mostly because of Eden. Although before today, the idea that she’d seriously want to do him had seemed as absurd and impossible as a three-way with outer-space-themed fictional characters, even though one of them was only named after a planet.
But he now took it out of his wallet, dropping the leather bifold that held his ID and credit card onto the floor of the car so he could more quickly cover himself. He focused on the task at hand—penis, latex, rolling it carefully down—so he didn’t have to think about the fact that he shouldn’t be doing this.
And there, alas, it was: He shouldn’t be doing this.
Izzy pushed the unhelpful thought away. Latex. Penis. Happy, happy penis. Not quite as happy as it had been under Eden’s sure touch, but that was going to change very quickly, very soon.
He shouldn’t be doing—
Oh, yeah, asshole? Why the fuck not?
Because you still love her, dim nuts. And maybe—just maybe—she loves you, and this is some kind of a test—
You are such a fucking moron. Test? She doesn’t love you. This is just her twisted way of saying thank you. Just shut up and get it while you can. She’ll be gone again, soon enough.
And where will that leave you? Freaked out and feeling like the shit that you are, because you know that she thinks all guys want just one thing from her, and here you are on the verge of proving her right.
Eden ended Izzy’s mental argument with himself by coming back, slipping her completely naked right leg over him.
But no doubt about it, despite how far back he’d reclined his seat, that steering wheel was going to interfere. So even as she came toward him, he lifted her up, and moved them both up and over the parking brake, and quickly reclined that seat as far as it could go.
He reached out and touched her then, sliding his fingers up the entire gorgeously smooth length of her leg. She, in turn, had reached for him again, one arm bracing herself as she balanced there above him, and she stroked him even as she maneuvered him toward her, pushing him just a little bit inside of her, and then a little bit more.
He watched her face, just letting her have complete control. Her eyes were closed, and she’d caught her lower lip between her teeth. But then, God, as she pushed herself down, all the way down, she opened her eyes and looked back at him.
Izzy had no idea what kind of expression he was wearing, but she seemed to think a conversation was in order.
“I was a little afraid it would hurt,” she whispered.
“Hurt?” he echoed, aware as hell that he was about as deeply inside of her as he could possibly be. At least in the front seat of a car like this. He wasn’t quite sure what to do. Move her off of him?
“But it doesn’t,” she said before he could do anything. And then, as if to prove it, she began to move on top of him, pulling herself up and almost entirely off him, before sliding slowly back down. “Definitely not.”
Yeah, hurt wasn’t the word he’d use to describe what she was doing, at least not on his end.
“Why were you afraid it would hurt?” he asked, even though he was pretty sure he knew the answer, as he lifted his hips up to meet her in a move that made her moan.
“Why would it?” he asked again, because it was clear she’d forgotten—or was ignoring his question.
“Because it’s been so long,” Eden told him in a sigh, closing her eyes as he again pushed himself home.
“For me, too,” he admitted, even as his heart pounded at the idea that Eden hadn’t been with anyone else. Of course, she hadn’t exactly said that … Still, it was a nice fantasy—one that he was happy to run with at this moment. “Damn, sweetheart, at the risk of ruining your evening, I think
I got three, maybe four more of those left in me. I usually last much longer. In my defense, I think I might be a little distracted by the whole in-the-car thing, too.”
She laughed as she lifted herself up and began another long, slow slide back down. “Are you seriously apologizing? In advance? For the most awesome sex I’ve had this year?” She leaned forward and caught his mouth with hers, kissing him, even as she moaned again at his extra push.
And then she didn’t pull back again, at least not the way she’d been doing it for the past few moments. She moved against him, faster, hard, then even harder, as if, even though he was filling her completely, it still wasn’t enough.
So he gave her more, pushing himself as deeply as he could inside of her, his hands on the softness of her ass as he anchored her in place and thrust himself up and up and up.
“Oh, yes,” she broke their kiss to say. “Yes!”
So Izzy kept doing what he was doing, even though it meant he couldn’t stop his own release from ripping through him, and really, there was nothing he could have done to prevent it, but he was hyperaware that she still hadn’t come. But then she did come, God, and as she did, she moaned his name.
And forget best sex of the year, it was the best sex of his life, and he was so fucked, because the voice in his head had been dead right.
He was still in love with her.
Of that he no longer had any doubt.
CHAPTER
TWELVE
Time of day had held no meaning when she was in her cell. Neesha had slept when she was tired, and had eaten whenever the food arrived. Since the food had been for the clients, too, she would know that a visit was imminent whenever a meal was laid out on her table at some strange hours of the day or night.
Of course, if there was preparation involved—a costume or other instructions regarding her hair or hygiene, one of the women would come in, in advance of the food. They wouldn’t knock on the door. They would simply enter, unannounced. If Neesha was sleeping, they would wake her. If she was watching TV, they would take the remote and turn it off.
At first the visits were infrequent—no more than one or two times a week. But as she got older, they increased to the point of one or two each day. And when she complained, the women who prepared her warned her to hush. They told her there were only two options for one such as her, who had started working so young.
One was to transition to work as a young woman, eventually being moved to a house overseas. Her days and nights would no longer be as luxurious as they had been—her visits would increase to a dozen or more a day. Which she would accept, graciously, cheerfully, and thankfully, with no complaints.
Because the other option—whether she remained here or was moved abroad—was for her to be sold for vast sums to a man who would take her to his home, where she would be at his beck and call until he tired of her. At which point, he would kill her and feed her chopped-up body to his dogs.
And she would never be missed, because she had been smuggled into the country after her mother had died—after she’d been sold to Mr. Nelson to pay her mother’s debts. She was illegal. Exploitable. Nonexistent. No one knew she was here, and no one cared.
If she ever escaped—God forbid—and went to the police, she would be arrested on sight.
Neesha knew this was true, because she’d watched news programs as often as she could, as she’d taught herself to speak and understand English. She’d seen the anger Americans held toward illegals. She’d heard the ugliness and hatred in their voices. She’d seen the rancor on their faces, even toward children.
Especially toward children.
She would be deported. Shipped off to a country where, should she let it slip that she was a sex worker, or even just that she’d lived in America and that she’d repeatedly committed the sin of fornication—regardless of the fact that she’d been willing or not—her punishment would be death. She would be stoned to death or burned or even buried alive for disgracing her family.
And she knew this was true, because she’d seen footage and pictures, shown to her by the woman who tended her. She also knew that they were meant to frighten her.
And they had done just that.
Time of day had held no meaning when she was in her cell—not the way it did now that she’d made her escape.
Now her mornings were for cleaning up and resting. She’d found a safe haven in the public library, where she’d convinced the librarians that she had accompanied her fictional father on a business trip. She would be here with him, she’d told the friendly women with the kind eyes, until the end of the summer. She always dressed the same, in dark pants and a white shirt, because it was her school uniform and she was working here in the library on an assignment to learn to read English.
She’d wash in the bathroom sinks and drink from the water fountain, and then she would curl up in the corner, in a comfy chair and look at books by a very strange doctor named Seuss.
One of the librarians found her books to read in Indonesian, after Neesha had told her that she was from Jakarta. But she couldn’t read those books, either—it had been too long. Still she pretended that she could, and thanked the woman, who then proceeded to show Neesha a computer program that calculated the number of miles from Las Vegas to Jakarta.
And she’d nearly cried when she’d seen how very far away it was—that city where her grandfather still lived—if he still lived after all these years. It was on an island that was hardly more than a small dot in the huge vastness of an ocean called the Pacific, and it was then that she knew she would most likely never again see her grandfather or her home.
She entered the library each day with caution, sitting outside, across the street and watching the entrance for about an hour before the doors first opened.
She would stay there, inside in the coolness, until the afternoon, when she went to one of three shopping malls that she’d discovered. There she would find enough food to last her throughout her day.
Nighttime was the most frightening—she feared the dark and all that could hide in the shadows. At first she’d kept moving, stayed alert, even as she tried not to call too much attention to herself—a girl on the street, alone.
Still, there were those who saw her—a group of women, some not that much older than she was—who beckoned and called to her. “Come and join our party!” And “When you get tired of wandering and decide you want to make some real money, come back and find us, here on Paradise Road. But, girlfriend? First find some hotter clothes so you at least look fourteen …”
But Neesha’s wandering took her away from the brightly lit main streets, and into neighborhoods that weren’t too far away, but where people lived not in big buildings, but in individual houses. And she returned there when darkness fell, and she curled up on patio furniture, with the comforting sounds of TVs bleeding through the walls and windows.
Sometimes she slept.
But she’d neither eaten nor slept since she’d seen the two men looking for her at the mall, since she’d known for sure that Mr. Nelson and Todd were closing in. She’d stayed far from the library, too.
She’d kept moving. All day and into the night.
But now she crouched in the shadows. And she watched the apartment where Ben lived with his sister. There was no sign of anyone else watching. Not the big man who’d been out front yesterday, or the two men she’d seen at the mall.
She was the only one hanging around. Everyone else moved quickly to get inside, away from the relentless heat.
And finally, after many hours, she knew that she had to take a chance. That maybe Ben’s sister could help her.
At the very least, maybe Ben was home. And this time she would take him up on his offer of a shower and a snack.
Her stomach rumbled as she crept from the shadows and found Ben’s key under the potted plant. Dr. Seuss had taught her to read American numbers, and she climbed the stairs to the second floor, and found the door with the two, the one, and the four.
It was dark in the apartment, and she slipped inside, moving swiftly through the rooms, and yes, no one was home. She was alone.
Izzy stayed silent as Eden rested her forehead against his shoulder, as they still both struggled to catch their breath, as the passion segment of their insanity ended and the messy cleanup part began.
Something, obviously, needed to be said, and So, how much do I owe you? was probably not the way to start the conversation if he wanted to live to see another day. Even though her I’m afraid this might hurt, it’s been so long comment seemed like something a girl would learn to tell her clients in the very first classroom session of Vegas Hooking 101.
The only thing she’d left out was a breathless and you’re so, so big.
And yeah, the voices in his head had both been right. He was a fucking moron, he was still in love with her, and he was pissed as hell at himself for being so weak because she definitely wasn’t going to learn to trust him if all he did was prove he was no different from all the other guys who only wanted to fuck her.
And at the same time, he knew with an absolute certainty that he’d done the right thing for himself. Because even if he’d kept her at arm’s length, professing his undying love, she not only wouldn’t believe him, but she wouldn’t give a shit. All he’d have was a boner and a missed opportunity to get off, and he’d been there, done that. Because she was never going to trust him, and she was, eventually, going to leave again. If things got too difficult—which they probably would in about seventeen seconds—she would walk away.
It was her MO and he could count on it.
Besides, the truth was, he did want to fuck her. Forever and endlessly. For the next solid year of his life, nonstop, if possible. After which he’d be dead, but his corpse would be smiling.