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I lift my fingers to my lips and suck them, because I need to taste her, and right now, this is the only way.
“Did you just…?” Her voice is breathy and soft, still turned on.
“Yeah. If I hadn’t, I would have kept thinking about it. It’s what you’d call an intrusive thought.”
I sense movement, and then her hands are in my hair, stroking it while she wiggles on my lap. “I want to do something for you, too.”
“Keep moving like that, it’ll happen without you having to do much at all.”
“It’s not going to be easy to forget this,” she says. No one would ever say reading between the lines is my strength, but she sounds a little sad about it.
“But you think we have to.”
“Yes, I do,” she says. “We’re going to live together. I just got out of that horrible situation with Byron, and I can’t go through that again.”
“That makes sense,” I say, even as I cup my hands around her hips, guiding her as she presses down on me. We’re dry-humping like a couple of teenagers, her legs off to the side because she has that cast on, but I couldn’t give a shit about anything right now except touching her and having her touch me.
I already know I’m not going to be able to forget about this or turn it off. I’ve probably just guaranteed that my life is going to be hell for the next however-long we live together, because every time I see her, I’m going to think about the way she tastes, the way she clenched around my hand and whispered my name like a prayer. Right now, what comes after doesn’t matter, but it will. It definitely will. The future’s like a guillotine blade, hanging over my head or maybe my dick.
“What about Daphne?” she asks.
A grunt escapes me, because I don’t want to think about Daphne. Quite frankly, I don’t really care about her. I’m starting to realize that her words stuck with me more than the end of our relationship did. I guess there’s something enlightening about giving a woman an orgasm in an elevator. “You’re riding my dick and you’re asking about my ex-girlfriend?”
“I’m not riding your dick,” she says, her voice sly as she leans in close, her words a whisper against the side of my neck, like the wind on a cool fall morning. “If I were riding your dick, you’d know.”
“You’re already driving me crazy. I’m not sure I want to know.”
It’s a lie. It’s maybe the most blatant lie I’ve told in my whole damn life. But here’s a truth: if she were riding my dick, I’d want to see it. I’d want to memorize every second and replay it at night when I can’t sleep, when my mind is as busy as a hive of bees.
“You’ll care about her later,” she says. “We’re just letting off some steam. It’s only because we’re stuck in here.”
I don’t like that she said that. I like it even less that she seems to believe it.
But it’s then that the light sizzles back to life. I have a half second to soak her in—her hair a mess from my hands, a pink spot on her neck from where I sucked her in, and her red dress rustled and in disarray. Surprise lights her eyes, followed by something else I’m much too inept to read, and then she’s shoving off my lap and away from my needy dick.
There’s a crunching sound, and her eyes get wider. She lifts her fingers to her lips.
“Let me guess,” I say. “Did you just sit on my glasses?”
“Will you believe me if I say it was an accident?”
Yes, because I don’t think she’d ruin them after I told her Ruthie got them for me. Don’t ask me how I know, but I’m sure of it.
“I believe you. But I’m guessing you’re not sorry it happened.”
She laughs, her eyes darting to the doors. “No, I guess I’m not.” She pulls them out from under her ass, and it’s a stupid thought, but for a second I’m jealous of my messed-up glasses for having been stuck under her sweet, rounded ass. They’re mangled, irreparably broken, but she hands them to me anyway.
“Thanks,” I say flatly, taking them and shoving them into my pocket. My pants are tented,obviouslytented, and her gaze lingers there. Her pink tongue darts out and licks her lips, and everything in me follows it.
“Do you—”
But I’ll never know what she was about to say. The elevator makes a sudden movement that scares a sound out of Mira. I grab her hand and squeeze it, and seconds later, the elevator finishes the upward trip and jerks to a stop.
“You think we’re at our floor?” she asks, staring at the door.
“Who cares?” I say, getting up and lifting her to her one working foot. She places her hand on my chest again—in the place I’ve come to think of as hers. “I’d get off anywhere.” Except that’s not quite true. Part of me wouldn’t have minded staying inside that elevator with her for the rest of the day, caught inside with nothing to do but learn about each other. I shake off the thought, remembering what she said—this, whatever it’s been, is over the second we leave the elevator—then I hand her phone to her.
The screen is cracked, so I grimace and tell her I’ll replace it.
