by J. Lynn
But when I look over at him, he’s leaning with his head pressed into the far corner, his chin tucked and forehead resting against the wall with his eyes tightly closed. His hands are bunched into fists at his sides.
I have no idea if he’s been watching or not.
As I slide on his shirt, I let my eyes trail across his shoulders and down his back. His shirt is still warm, still smells like him, and for a flash of a second I imagine it’s actually him—his fingertips—trailing across my body.
My breathing ticks up, coming out faster. Russell presses the knuckles of his fists against his thighs and I fumble as I try to quickly button the shirt.
Unsurprisingly, it’s way too big for me, hanging well past my fingertips and coming almost to my knees—practically the same length as my skirt. And yet, as I unzip my sodden skirt and begin sliding it past my hips, I can’t help but feel as though his shirt covers nothing at all.
When I go to step free of my underwear, one of my heels catches in the lace edging and I stumble. Though I catch myself immediately, Russell’s already pushed himself away from the wall, reaching out to steady me. I look up at him, my lips parted in surprise as his hands grip my elbows. “I’m okay,” I tell him, but my voice comes out breathier than I intend.
Where his eyes had been green before, they’ve now been swallowed almost whole by his pupils. He nods once. And then again. And then seems to realize that he’s still holding me and he lets go, taking a step away.
It’s probably unconscious, the way his gaze slips down my body, but he looks away instantly, a muscle ticking in his jaw. His hands curl back into fists and he shoves them into his pockets.
He clears his throat. Clears it again. “Shirt’s buttoned wrong,” he finally manages to say.
I glance down and sure enough, he’s right. I turn my back to him, fumbling to readjust, and when I look up, my eyes meet his in the mirror. My fingers still.
“I’m sorry,” he says, apologizing for watching me. But he doesn’t look away.
“It’s okay,” I tell him, still holding his gaze. I swallow, acutely aware of the fact that I’m wearing nothing but his shirt. The hem of it drifts around my thighs, brushing against my skin and sending shivers racing up my spine.
There’s a strained moment while we stand back to back, staring at each other in the mirror. Even seeing the hunger in his eyes, I’m frozen, unable to move. Because I don’t trust it—don’t trust the sound of his breathing, the tension radiating from him.
Panicked at the intensity of desire thrumming through me, I immediately set out to deflect it. I move toward the corner where we’ve stashed the food and crouch. “I guess if we’re going to be here awhile, we might as well eat this.” I look up at him over my shoulder. “You hungry?”
I can’t decide if it’s disappointment or amusement that flickers in his eyes, and my stomach twists at the possibility it could be the former. I force myself not to glance down at his bare chest, kicking myself for being such a wimp.
“Sounds good to me. Wine?” he asks, reaching for the bottle.
I laugh. “You just happen to carry a corkscrew around?”
He smiles, a mischievous glint in his eyes. “No, but I have a shoe.”
I watch, skeptical, as he removes his shoes and sets the bottom of the wine bottle in the heel of one. “Brace yourself,” he warns, still grinning. Then he slams the shoe against the elevator floor hard enough that it makes me jump.
“If that breaks and spills wine everywhere, we’ll be out of shirts,” I tease. And then I realize the implication of what I’ve just said and blush so furiously that I swear even my toes flush pink.
“Wouldn’t that be a shame?” he asks, eyebrow raised as he bangs the shoe against the floor again, if anything, with more force this time.
Flustered, I focus on setting out the food into a semblance of a picnic. When I look up again, Russell has the cork worked almost out and pulls it free with a flourish. He bows and takes a swig straight from the bottle. “Perfect,” he announces, passing it toward me.
“I can’t believe that worked,” I tell him, laughing. I take a sip, trying not to think about the fact that only seconds ago his lips had pressed tight to the rim of the bottle. A rush of warmth flows through me—the wine hitting my empty stomach combined with Russell’s nearness as he sits next to me.
I tuck my legs to the side, tugging the shirttails down in an attempt to retain a bit of modesty. “For this evening’s menu we have stuffed chicken breasts in a champagne sauce with roasted fingerling potatoes, steak au poivre with sautéed vegetables, and a Mediterranean plate.”
“Bless Kauffman and his penchant for wet nights and gourmet food,” Russell says, pulling a container of pita points and hummus closer. He takes a bite and moans with delight. The sound of it sets off fireworks low in my abdomen and I take another swig of wine.
“You have to try this,” he says, swiping another wedge of pita through the hummus and holding it out to me. My mind dares me to eat it right out of his fingers, to let this gorgeous man feed me, but I’m not that brazen. I take the offered piece and pop it in my mouth.
Now it’s my turn to moan with appreciation as my eyes flutter closed and I lick an errant dollop of hummus from my thumb. When I look up again, Russell’s holding the wine bottle still against his lips, as though I’ve just caught him mid-swallow.
He clears his throat. “So, MacKenzie,” he says pulling another container closer and cutting off a slice of steak. “Tell me about yourself.”
“Ha!” I press the back of my hand against my mouth to keep from laughing. “There’s not really much to say. I’m not that interesting.” I cringe once the words leave my mouth. Way to sell yourself, MacKenzie. Taking a deep breath, I try to salvage the situation. “What do you want to know?”
He looks at me for a long moment, as though appraising me as he finishes chewing his steak. Nervous being the attention of such focus, I take another swallow of wine.
“Not the boring stuff,” he finally says. “Like where you grew up and what your first pet was named.” He reaches for the wine. “I want the interesting stuff, like what you want to do with your life.”
This time I really do laugh. “I’d think that was obvious given where we are.”
“You want to be stuck in an elevator the rest of your life?” he asks, grinning cheekily.
I swat at him but he catches my hand before I can make contact. His touch instantly buzzes along my skin and I swallow, my mouth suddenly dry. “No, I mean working for the firm this summer. I’m hoping to get an offer for after I graduate.” I sound more serious than I intend to.
“So you do mean being stuck in an elevator the rest of your life?” he says again, and while it comes out teasing, it’s clear he intends it as a serious question.
“It’s a good job,” I say defensively.
He still holds my hand in his and he turns it, splaying his thumb across my palm. “If you could do anything in the world, what would it be?”
I stare at my palm for a moment, as though the lines carved across it could tell me anything about my future. The edge of his thumb traces along my lifeline and the sensation of that touch pulses up my arm.
It’s too much and I tug free, reaching for the bottle of wine as an excuse. I’ve been asked this question before—you can’t get through junior year of college without a slew of people asking what you want to do when you grow up. But all the answers I’ve given in the past feel inadequate now.
“I don’t know,” I finally admit.
He immediately counters with “I don’t believe you.”
I smile, a part of me liking that he’s called me on my bullshit. “I’d travel,” I tell him, not realizing until I say the words out loud that I’ve never voiced this desire. “But I’d go to the places people don’t normally go, to see how people really live. Really experience life.”
Russell doesn’t respond at first and the muscles along my shoulders tense, bracing against the
fear of being judged. But then he nods, as though appreciative of my answer. “Then why don’t you do that?”
I blow out a breath of air with a laugh and roll my eyes. “A million reasons: money, time, resources.” I hesitate, tapping a finger against the floor as I decide whether to tell him more.
Maybe it’s the wine helping me let down my guard, or maybe it’s just what happens when you’re trapped somewhere with a stranger and all the typical rules of normal social interactions become suspended. But I feel the urge to be more honest than I perhaps otherwise would be.
“But really, it’s fear,” I confess. “I’m not brave enough to go to those places. Definitely not alone.” I look down at my hands, staring again at the lifeline he’d traced just a moment ago. “And that’s what worries me the most. That I’ll let fear keep me from really living life.”
He tilts his head, looking at me with what appears to be genuine confusion. “You don’t think you’re brave?” he asks.
Laughing, I say, “I get flustered being trapped in an elevator with a guy. Imagine me trying to find my way around Ethiopia or Madagascar.” I shake my head. “No, if I were brave I would have—” but I’m not even brave enough to say the words. Instead I take another swallow of wine while I finish the sentence in my head.
Would have let you make a move on me. Would have touched you. Would have kissed you.
“Would have what?” he asks.
I shake my head and stand, feeling the need to move even if it’s only a few steps away. “What about you?” I ask, shifting the focus away from me. “If you could do anything in the world, what would it be?”
He runs his thumb around the ridge of the wine bottle as he considers the question. “Honestly?” he asks.
The corners of my lips tug into a smile. “Only fair—I was honest with you.”
He stands and takes a step toward me. “You sure?” he asks. And it’s like the air in the room has changed. Grown thicker. Electrified. The hairs along my arms stand on end, every nerve jumping to attention.
I swallow and nod my head.
“I’d do this.” His fingers twitch, catching the hem of the shirt drifting around my thighs. He tugs gently, pulling me closer. The material stretches tight against my back and I step forward, within his reach.
He looks at me, his eyes searching—asking the question. Giving me the chance to say no, to pull away.
I lean forward, bringing myself closer. I don’t know how to ask for what I want. I’m not even sure what it is that I want.
Be brave, I tell myself. And so I move first, bringing my hands up, pressing them against his bare chest. His skin burns, the muscles jumping under my touch. His heartbeat soars, pounding furiously. He closes his eyes, lets out a long, low breath, and clenches his teeth. But he doesn’t stop me. He doesn’t press me. He just lets me explore.
I trace the hard edge of his pecs, pressing my palm flat against his sternum and pushing down, down, across the ridges of his abdomen and lower still until I curl the tips of my fingers in the waistband of his pants.
His own fingers have twisted in the hem of my shirt, tangling it tighter and pulling me forward so that my thighs press against his. Even with my heels on, he’s taller than I am and I find myself facing the hollow at the base of his throat. I watch the way his pulse flutters, scurrying up the long column of his throat.
Before I even think about it, before I even know what I’m doing, I lean forward and my tongue darts out, tasting him at the point where his collarbones collide. His palms press against the sides of my hips, fingertips digging against me, but not so insistent that I can’t step away if I choose.
“MacKenzie,” he whispers, breath hot against my temple. And it’s in the way that he says it that I understand what he’s asking: that I’m sure about this. That I understand where this is leading. His lips touch gently against the edge of my hairline and I moan, soft and low.
One of his hands dips under the edge of the shirt, trailing up the outside curve of my thigh, circling around to cup my hip. When he realizes that I’m wearing nothing underneath, he groans, head falling back against the elevator wall.
“MacKenzie,” he whispers again. And this time it sounds more like a plea. But what he doesn’t understand is that the sound of my name on his lips is the call of a siren. I trace a hand up across his chest, trailing along his neck until I’m gripping the back of his head.
I pull him down until our eyes meet, our mouths a breath apart. “Yes,” I tell him. Wanting to make sure he understands. There’s a heartbeat or maybe more while he waits for me to change my mind. Waits to make sure what I’m saying is true.
And when I don’t take it back, when I strain ever so slightly against him, he growls low in his throat. With a shudder, his hands take possession, one claiming my back, the other plunging into my hair. He pushes me across the elevator until I’m pressed against the mirrored wall, surrounded by him.
For the last time he hesitates, lips so close against mine I can practically taste him. I don’t wait for him to make the move. I surge, up and against him, and the sudden movement catches him momentarily off guard. Just enough for me to taste him fully.
Then he devours me. I’ve had every sense trained on him so acutely that to have him all at once like this overwhelms me in a rush of sensation. “MacKenzie,” he murmurs, nipping at my ear before trailing kisses down my neck.
“Yes,” I tell him again, arching off the wall, tangling my legs with his. It’s heat and power, passion and tenderness. Everything hot and furious as he cups a hand under my thigh, lifting my leg until it’s wrapped around his hip. I groan, feeling him that much closer. Feeling him pressed against me, straining.
My hands have free rein over his naked torso, gripping at the muscles, pulling him closer, feeling the surge and strength of him under my touch. Our breaths turn harsh, loud and demanding. And just as his fingers fumble with the buttons on the shirt, just as he’s about to part it, exposing me completely, the red phone rings.
We both pause, gasping. His head tucked against the crook of my neck, my hands wrapped around his shoulders. The look he gives me is strained, unfocused but then he closes his eyes. Shudders. And steps away.
He yanks the phone free. “What?” he growls. He listens, frowning. Then lets out a strained sigh and presses his fingers against his eyes. He hangs up slowly, staring at the phone for a moment.
Doubts cascade into my head. He regrets it. This was wrong. I feel the way the shirt brushes against my exposed skin. I grasp at the edges of it, pulling it tight.
“MacKenzie.” I can already hear the apology in the way he says my name and I hate it. It makes me feel like a mistake. God, and to think that if the phone hadn’t rung I’d have kept going.
I turn my head, squeeze my eyes tight. This is the first time I’ve ever done anything like this. It isn’t who I am. Who I’ve ever been.
“I’m sorry.” I say it first because I can’t bear hearing it from him.
Nothing. Silence. When I risk a peek, he’s standing in front of me, hands clenched by his side. He considers me for a moment and I cross my arms tighter.
“I’m not,” he finally says.
I frown and he lets out a long breath, running a hand over his head to grasp the back of his neck. “I should be sorry, I know I should be. But I’m not.” He pauses, chin dropped, and looks at me through the tops of his eyes. “Unless you want me to be.”
He waits for me to answer. To demand an apology. But I can’t. I shake my head and his shoulders ease a bit. Be brave. “I lied,” I tell him, and the muscles ripple along his jaw, tension and concern flooding his eyes.
I let one of my hands fall and reach forward, curling my fingers around his pinky. He holds his breath. “About being sorry,” I explain. “I lied about that.” I tug, pulling him closer. “I’m not sorry. Maybe I should be. But I’m not.”
I press up onto my toes, bringing my mouth to his, taking my time with the kiss, savoring and tasting ra
ther than devouring. And he lets me, allowing me to set the pace until we both surface for air.
“By the way, what were they calling about?” I ask, my forehead pressed against his chin.
“The engineer arrived and knows what the problem is but it will still be an hour or two until it’s fixed,” he says, smiling against me.
“Oh darn,” I whisper.
LATER I’M LYING on my back, my head in his lap as he runs his fingers through my hair, gently untangling it. I’m wearing his shirt—buttoned correctly this time—and am letting my thoughts drift over the events of the past few hours.
I start laughing and he pauses, looking down at me with raised eyebrows. “I was just thinking about those douche bags who didn’t hold the elevator for me,” I explain. “There were like seven of them in there and at least one had to pee. God I’m glad I didn’t end up in that elevator.”
“Hopefully that isn’t the only reason,” he says, grinning wolfishly.
“Definitely not,” I laugh, trailing the tips of my fingers along his abdomen. But thinking about those other guys makes me think about work which makes me remember that this right here is just a bubble.
It’s not real life. No matter how much I wish it might be.
I sit up and turn, pulling my knees up and tucking them under the shirt. “So I’ve got a question for you.” His expression turns wary but I plunge ahead anyway. “Who were you meeting at the office?” At night with a bottle of wine, I add silently.
He shifts, suddenly uncomfortable, and my stomach drops.
I honestly have no right to feel a pang of jealousy at the thought of him meeting up with another woman—if anything, the thought should make him a bigger douche bag than the guys who refused to hold the elevator for me. But that doesn’t stop jealousy from merrily twisting away at my gut.
“My dad works for the firm and it’s his birthday,” he finally says. “He and I don’t really get along but my mom asked me to make more of an effort.” He shrugs. “I figured wine would make said effort a little easier to make.”
