Falling in between, p.8
Falling in Between, page 8
I’m in a stairwell with this man’s fingers inside me. Shit! Panicking, I shake my head. “Stop. Stop…”
Elijah stares at me, his chest rising on ragged swells before he lifts the fingers that were just inside me to his mouth and deliberately slips them between his lips. “So fucking sweet.” He smooths one hand over his shirt while wiping the corners of his mouth with the other. He’s like a predator sizing up prey.
I find my hands flattening against the rough concrete wall behind me. Jesus, I wish I knew what he was thinking. My knees threaten to buckle. With a slight twitch of his lips, he takes my hand, leads me out the door, straight through the crowded rooftop, and to the elevator.
“Where are we going?” I ask when the doors ping open.
“My condo.”
I watch the doors close. “I’m not fucking you,” I lie for the second time. I would. Ashamedly, I would.
He’s wound me up like some cheap plaything, and he’s holding me in his hand just waiting to release me and watch me crash into the wall. “I never expected you to,” he says.
I cross my arms over my chest, kick my hip to the side, and arch a single brow. “Oh, please. You told that woman—”
“All in good fun.”
I tilt my head. “So, finger bang me in the stairwell—”
“You’re the one who shoved my hand up your skirt. It would have been poor manners for me to decline the offer.” He winks.
I press my lips together, holding his stare, not sure whether to be pissed that he just made me wet again or not.
The elevator doors slide open and he steps out, holding his arm over my head while I exit. Instead of following him, I stay put in the hallway. I need to decide here and now if I’m okay sleeping with him. Because if I step into his apartment, it’s going to happen. I’m going to be painfully sober and naked in front of this man, and then it will be uncomfortably awkward when it’s over.
He stops in front of the only door in the hall and unlocks it, glancing over his shoulder. “Are you coming?”
Exhaling, I give in and scold myself the entire way down the hall. I take one step inside the dark entranceway. “Are your lights out or something? Because my survival instincts tell me it’s not the best idea to go into a dark room with a strange man.”
I barely have the words out before he grabs my arm and yanks me inside. The second the door closes, I see why he didn’t turn on the lights. Straight ahead is a large floor-to-ceiling window with an impressive view of the skyline. “Wow…” I start toward the window. “Now, I’m impressed.”
An overhead light blinks to life. And now it’s not just the view that nearly has me floored; it’s his entire apartment. Marble floors, black-leather sofas flanked with sleek, wood tables that give the place a masculine feel. A stairwell leads to a loft—his bedroom enclosed by a glass wall. Everything screams wealthy, eligible bachelor. He makes his way across the room, flipping switches, and I notice a cello propped in the corner of the living area. I imagine what it must look like, Elijah straddling the instrument while slowly dragging a bow over the strings.
“Do you play the cello?” I ask.
“I haven’t in a very long time.” He undoes his tie and tosses it over the back of the couch.
“Would you play for me?”
“I don’t play for people. Or amusement.” There’s a cold bitterness seeping from his words. This man, so together in every way, has a crack.
I redirect my attention to the view, my hand hovering over the glass. When he steps behind me, I watch his reflection in the window. All I can think is that he’s like a king in his castle, staring out over his empire.
“Well,” he says. His eyes pin me to the spot when I glance over my shoulder. “This is different.”
“What is?”
“A woman in my apartment.” He steps around me, opens the sliding door, and emerges onto the balcony with a smirk.
Surely he brings women into his apartment, but I won’t lie, the thought that I’m different does something to me. Through the window, I watch him unfasten the first few buttons of his shirt with a deft flick of his wrist.
“Are you going to stand there all night?” he asks.
I steel myself before moving outside. A light breeze puffs around the building, catching my skirt around my thighs. The music drifts down from the rooftop, mixing with the chug of the boats on the river. I walk past him and drape my arms over the railing, staring at the twinkling city in the distance.
“What did you expect to happen when I brought you up here, Demi?” He steps toward me. “You said you wouldn’t fuck me…” Another step. “But I don’t believe you meant that.”
I spin around to face him, immediately wishing I hadn’t, because now I’m trapped between his warm body and the railing.
“Believe what you want,” I say, trying to pull my stare away from his full lips.
“Why else would you come up here? You know I want nothing more than to fuck you.” His question hangs heavily in the air like cigar smoke, cherry-laced and smug.
My jaw tenses, but before I can say anything, he seizes my waist and yanks me against him in a brutal kiss. His fingers tangle in my hair, pulling and tugging as I melt into him.
“Then again,” he says, nipping at my lip. “I want to do so many things to you.” His hands roam my body like an act of worship, and with each passing second, he winds me up bit by bit. Reducing me to nothing more than primal lust and need.
Soon, the only thoughts dancing through my mind are ones of his naked body hovering over mine, his hips driving into me, my nails digging into his broad back. I want to know what his face looks like between my thighs, what he sounds like when he comes.
His hands slip under my dress, and he palms my ass, jerking my hips against his erection. My body responds with a flood of heat. I’m almost ashamed at how damp I am for him.
His fingers sweep my throat. “The other night when you touched yourself, how did it feel?” He leans in, biting at my neck. “Tell me.”
“Good.”
He laughs against my skin. “That’s not enough.” He grabs one of my hands and moves it between us, forcing me to palm myself. “Tell me, Demi. Are you wet?”
I swallow when he guides one of my fingers under the material of my thong and rubs it over my slit. “Yes.”
“Good girl.” The steady tone to his praise sends a chill down my spine. “Did you use one finger?” He squeezes my digits together, then pushes them inside me. “Or two?” His thumb circles my clit as he moves my fingers in and out. “How many?”
Despite how wrong this feels, I moan. “Two.”
He bites at my throat, still guiding me as I masturbate for him.
After a few seconds, his hand drops from mine, and he unfastens his slacks. They pool around his ankles. He’s sans underwear, and his hard dick bobs when it’s freed from the constraint of his pants. “Keep fucking yourself for me,” he says, and my muscles tense.
I’m overwhelmed with arousal, shocked that I’m fingering myself. Even more surprised at how much wetter I become when he grips his cock, working his hand over his shaft. The silver barbell glints under the patio light. My fingers twitch to touch him while my pulse ratchets.
“When you touched yourself,” he says. “Did you think of me?”
“Yes,” I confess, burying my fingers deeper inside.
His pace quickens again. “Do you think about us in bed?”
I nod.
“Am I making love to you, slow and steady? Are you on top of me? Or do I have you pinned down by the throat, fucking you?”
I play into this because it feels taboo and exotic. “You’re behind me with my hair wrapped around your wrist. You take me like a savage.”
A wide grin spreads across his face. The muscles in his forearm pop as he strokes himself.
I bite at my lip. I’m unaware that I’ve placed one foot on the wrought iron patio chair, exposing myself to him until his gaze flicks to my hand frantically trying to ease the throbbing need.
“So pretty. So greedy,” he whispers.
The porch light across from us illuminates. The suction of someone opening the sliding door seems loud, and I drop my leg to the ground.
“Don’t you dare,” he says, nodding to the chair as he jerks himself faster.
My gaze darts to the apartment. A couple steps out onto their balcony. The man has on a green shirt and khakis. The woman’s striped dress billows in the wind. If I can see that much detail on them…
“Show them what a tight, little pussy you have, tiger lily,” Elijah provokes me. “Show them how perfect you are.”
As though in a trance, I place my foot on the chair again, turning so the couple has an exquisite view of what I’m doing.
My eyes fall back on Elijah, to how he pleases himself while watching me. It shouldn’t turn me on, but I don’t think anything has ever done more for me. Everything builds under my touch, and while it feels good, I just want it to be his fingers inside me.
“I’ve imagined laying you on the bed,” he says. “Spreading your thighs and burying myself deep inside you. I think about taking you from behind while another man watches, wishing he were so lucky.”
Heat courses from my core to my fingers and toes.
“Are you there? Are you ready?” he pants, his hand slapping against his lower abdomen.
“Yes!” I’m so close to the edge that my voice echoes from the walls and out over the East River.
With that, Elijah’s head falls back. His brows knit together, his jaw clenches before his lips part on a deep groan—one that I feel in my stomach. One that is the catalyst for driving me over the edge. His face tightens, and his nostrils flare. This man, usually in complete control, has come unraveled, and my what a beautiful sight it is.
I fight the noises threatening to spill from my lips, only allowing a soft whimper through as my body jerks and tenses. Over and over. Until my legs feel weak and I’m breathless.
Elijah hunches forward as he comes, spilling onto the tiled porch. He steps toward me, cupping the back of my head before pulling me in for a kiss. “You have no idea what you’ve just done to me,” he whispers against my lips. “None.”
I don’t even know who I am with this man, but I rather enjoy it.
Without a word, he pulls up his pants, moves past me, then glances over his shoulder with one of his signature, smug grins, and those dimples—damn, those dimples—before disappearing inside.
I watch through the window as he climbs the steps to his bedroom. His back is to me as he undresses, then crawls into the bed and lies back on the pillow.
A blue haze fills the room when the TV turns on.
Now this, this is awkward. I’m still on the patio, and he’s in his bed—after we just masturbated in front of each other while his neighbors watched. I need to get out of here.
I slip inside, closing the glass door behind me. I grab my phone from my purse, tapping the little Uber app.
“What are you doing?” he calls from the bed, a playful lilt to his tone.
“Calling Uber.”
“It’s already past midnight, Cinderella. Besides, you do realize those things are dangerous?”
“Uber is not dangerous. They do background checks.” I look up and frown. Shit. Maybe they are. My gaze drifts back to the cell in my hand.
“Most skilled serial killers are serial killers for a reason, which is how they know to avoid getting caught. What better way than carting unsuspecting women around.”
My stomach knots, then sinks and bubbles. Jesus, either he’s playing to my paranoia, or he’s right.
“Stay.”
I look up again, and his attention is still focused on the large plasma screen hung in front of his bed. “Stay?” I repeat, slowly.
“Don’t make me beg.”
I place my hands on my hips as I make my way to the bottom of the stairs. “I’m not sleeping with you.” At this point, I’m trying to convince myself. Not him.
He cocks his head to the side as a wrinkle sets between his brows. “There’s more to life than sex, Demi.” He pats the mattress. “Surely you can’t blame me for wanting to sleep next to you?”
There goes that stupid pitter-patter heartbeat. He’s swoon-worthy. Lies and all. So I can’t blame my feet too much when they carry me up the steps and straight to the foot of his bed.
“You can borrow a shirt.” He points to the dresser behind me. “Top right.”
Eyeing him suspiciously, I open the drawer and grab the first white undershirt I see. “Thanks,” I say on my way to the bathroom. I don’t miss the smirk on his face when I slip through the door and close it behind me.
A set of halogen lights blink to life over the round mirror, and I find myself standing in a completely white, marble bathroom. After I step out of my dress, I tug his shirt over my head, and although I mostly smell fabric softener, there’s still a hint of that spicy, leather scent that seems to exude from his every pore.
I check my reflection and run my fingers through my hair to try to give it a little volume. I’m so out of my element here. I wasn’t prepared for this; I was supposed to go home. I have no clothes. No toothbrush. Dragging in a breath, I nod at my reflection before opening the door. I can do this. I can totally do—whatever I’m about to do.
The hem to Elijah’s T-shirt hits right at the top of my thigh, and the movement of the soft fabric against my breasts causes my nipples to pucker and harden.
When I walk into the room, he’s no longer looking at the TV; he’s staring at me with his bottom lip gripped between his teeth. That look—God, that look. It makes my skin heat. It’s electrically charged, empowering. And dammit, I want to drown in it.
I crawl onto the bed, wondering if I should kiss him or just lie down, but before I have a chance to do either, his hands land on my waist.
“You know what you’re doing, don’t you?” he says, gently pushing me back on the mattress. “I know you do.”
He nips at my earlobe while grabbing the bottom of the shirt and pulling tight. He kisses down my neck, slowly trailing his way to my breasts where he hovers. Looking up with hooded eyes, he slowly places his teeth around my nipple, biting me through the fabric.
I hiss in a sharp breath. My back bows. My toes curl. And then he rolls off me. My breathing is ragged. I’m throbbing between my thighs. Again. He literally rolled off me and now has the remote in his hand, flipping channels like he’s bored. Suddenly, he stretches an arm across the pillow, then looks at me before jerking his head at his outstretched arm.
“What?” I ask.
He pats his bare chest.
“You want me to lie on you?” I know I must be scowling.
“Isn’t that what most people do when they sleep together?”
I watch for a hint of a smirk, a crinkle by his eyes, but no, he’s serious. “Um…”
Without another word, he sits up, places his arm around me, and drags me against his chest as he falls back onto the bed. “Finger fucking in the stairwell and masturbating on balconies are acceptable, but cuddling isn’t?” he asks.
I don’t even know what to say; cuddling doesn’t seem like a word that should exist in his vocabulary. “I just…”
“You’re scared of everything. Bridges. Sex. Cuddling.” He chuckles. “But not Uber drivers.”
Against my will, I melt into him. Into his warm embrace, his hard chest. He’s well versed at this; it’s obvious, but even with that knowledge, my heart and head are still at war with one another.
This feels so right it actually terrifies me. One date. And this feels right? That’s ridiculous. I must be drunk or overly tired or just…horny. Slowly, cautiously, I glance at him from the corner of my eye. He’s so relaxed, like this is no big deal. As though this is how it should be; us in this bed. Not having sex. Relax, Charlie. It’s no big thing. He’s just holding you like you mean something to him. Holding you like Harold never did. And it feels right, but it’s nothing. Just basic human affection.
“Don’t worry, Demi,” he says, still looking straight ahead at the TV. “I promise we’ll keep it casual. Somewhere between strangers and lovers.”
“Okay,” I whisper, not sure whether that weird feeling in my chest is relief, or my heart already breaking just a little.
12
Stretching, I roll over and open my eyes. Sunlight streams through the windows, casting golden streaks across the hardwood floors—I don’t have hardwood floors. I bolt upright in bed, disoriented for the few seconds it takes me to remember that I fell asleep on Elijah last night like it was my job. When I glance over to his side of the bed, it’s empty except for a folded, gray piece of paper with my fake name written across the front. I pick it up and open it.
Demi,
I’m sorry. I had a spur of the moment meeting with an investor.
You were too beautiful to wake. I hope you’ll forgive me.
Coffee is in the kitchen. Call Simon at the number below to take you back to your apartment. No Ubers.
Elijah
Sighing, I drop the note to my lap, then scrub my hand over my face. I don’t know what the hell I’m doing. In his bed. With this note in my hand. And more importantly, I shouldn’t be disappointed that he’s gone.
A small panic attempts to wind through me, and then I remind myself this is casual. That a man who fucks for a hobby is not a man who gets involved with a woman. This is experimenting. Maybe a midlife crisis. There should be no problem here. He’s attractive and fun to be around. Most importantly, no matter what happens, there is already an expiration date, so that voids the possibility of disappointment. Shaking my head, I throw off the covers and climb out of his lavish bed.
I use his bathroom, slip into my dress from last night, then go to the kitchen for coffee. I smile when I notice the cup on the counter and a spoon placed next to the sugar bowl. Such little things shouldn’t hold meaning, but that’s where all the meaning is held. Just like in art. It’s the tiny details that make something beautiful.
