Hard Rules

by Lisa Renee Jones

  There is a flicker of emotion, or perhaps a glint, in his eyes, and then he’s dragging me to him, inside the elevator, and he’s keying in his floor. Another quick maneuver later, I’m in the corner of the elevator, his powerful legs pinning mine, his hands on the wall above me, instead of on me.

  “Why are you here?” he repeats, that dark energy I’d felt in him the first night he’d fought with his brother back tenfold.

  “I told you. I couldn’t stay away. And…” I hesitate a moment on a confession, a piece of myself I’m supposed to deny now, but I can’t. Not with him and what I know of his father now. “And because,” I continue, “my father killed himself and I know what it’s like to love and hate a parent at the same time. And I know how that guts you and fills you with guilt.”

  I have barely said the words and his hands are framing my face, and again, he is looking at me, but not with a question this time, but rather with shock that fades into heat and desire, and then he is kissing me, deeply, completely. And he lets me taste the guilt I’ve proclaimed to understand. The anger, which I know and expect, is there too. Hot. Fierce. Intense and barely contained. It is raw, the way I know his emotions have to be as well and I am certain he wants to drive them away, at least for now. For a moment in time that lets him forget what will never truly be gone.

  The elevator dings and he tears his mouth from mine, lacing our fingers together and leading me into the hallway without stopping. With purpose in his steps, he walks toward his apartment, and I am right there with him. I am ready to be alone with him, to revel in every second I have with this man. I know it can’t last. And I am ready to be the way he escapes and finds just a little peace in the war that rages in his reality.

  By the time we are at the door my heart is racing and my knees are weak, not from nerves, but from the pulse of energy radiating between us. He opens the door and we are inside his dark apartment at almost the same moment. He releases me then, leaving me chilled in all the places he’d made me warm, which is pretty much everywhere. The door shuts behind me, sealing our deal to spend this night together. A moment later, maybe two, Shane’s hands settle on my arms, and before I know what is happening, I’m facing the wall, my purse clattering to the floor, my hands pressed to the hard surface in front of me. He steps into me, his big body cradling mine, wrapped around me, hard where I am soft. Right in every way that nothing could ever make wrong.

  “We’re going to fuck. Just fuck and I need you to tell me you know that.”

  “I’m the one who said—”

  “Say it.”

  “I understand.”

  “Say it.”

  “We’re just fucking.”

  He leans in closer, his breath a warm tickle on my neck, his voice a firm demand. “You do what I say. You trust me. Without question.” Trust. It is not something I give easily, and yet, I sense that this isn’t about just wanting my trust. It’s not even really about trust, but rather the control death steals from you.

  “Emily—” he begins.

  “Yes,” I say. “You can have the control.”

  “I asked for trust.”

  “Same thing,” I say, and he must not disagree, as he unzips my skirt, letting it fall to the ground, and already he’s dragging my jacket down my shoulders, his fingers caressing my skin and leaving goose bumps in their wake. I shiver and oh so easily, I am lost, not in worries or fears, but in this man, a thunderstorm of emotions and sensations assaulting my senses. There is no time for anything else but him, no room, and already my shirt has fallen to the ground, my bra is unhooked. Another blink, and Shane is on one knee, his fingers twining in the lace strips at my hips, dragging my panties down to my ankles. I have an instant to realize just how naked I am, inside and out, before his teeth scrape my backside, and I moan with the tightening of my sex and nipples. I’ve barely recovered from a rush of pleasure, before he’s standing again, lifting me, and kicking aside my clothing, my shoes lost in the process.

  And then he is turning me to face him, tearing away my bra, his hands bracketing my waist, eyes lowering to rake over my breasts, then lifting to my face. “Trust has to be earned. Control can be taken and if you think control and trust are the same thing, you’ve been with the wrong man. I’m not the wrong man. At least, not tonight.”

  “No,” I agree. “You are not the wrong man.”

  “No, I am not, but right now, I just need to fuck. Hard and fast, and then we’ll do it right.”

  “Hard and fast is right, if that’s what you need.”

  “What do you need?”

  “You,” I say, repeating what he’d said to me that first night we were together. “Just you.”

  His eyes darken and he tugs his shirt off over his head. Before it even hits the ground, my hands are on his chest, fingers nestled in the springy hair there, heat seeping from his body, to mine. He cups my head and kisses me, and I sink into him, melting … Oh yes, I am melting into one big puddle of lust and desire, free in a way with this man that is indescribably different than with the men of my past. The way everything is indescribably different with Shane. And he is touching me, caressing me, pinching my nipples one moment, his fingers in the slick wet heat of my sex the next. We are wild. We are ready for more and more and more, but he pulls back, pressing his hands on the wall behind me. “Holy fuck. I don’t have a condom.”

  “I’m on the pill,” I blurt out, and quickly add, “I don’t do unprotected sex. I just … I’m on the pill. I swear to you. The last thing I want is to get pregnant.”

  He cups my face. “For who?”

  “What?”

  “Who did you go on the pill for?”

  “Me. I did it for me.”

  “Are you running from a man who’s going to show back up?”

  “No. God no, Shane. And if we’re just fucking why does it matter anyway?”

  “Don’t talk,” he says, his voice low, gravelly, his mouth slanting over mine. And then he is kissing me, and there is more than guilt on his lips now. There is hunger, lust, demand. And I answer him, holding nothing back, wild, frenzied, and everything is a whirlwind of sensation that burns through me until there is nothing but my hands on him and his on me. Somehow, his clothes are fully gone, and I’m against the wall, or the front door I think, and he is inside me, cupping my backside and lifting me. I respond instantly, my legs automatically wrap around his waist, and I don’t know how, or why, but we still, our bodies locked together, our breathing heavy whispers, coming together as one. We are one in this moment, two people lost and found in each other, both of us fighting a battle the other understands in ways no one else can.

  Seconds tick by, and he whispers, “What the hell are you doing to me?” but I never get the chance to ask him the same. He lifts me off the wall, one hand pressing between my shoulder blades, molding me to him, the other cupping my backside as he pulls me down on the hard thick ridge of his erection, and thrusts into me again. I pant, curling forward and holding on to him, burying my face in his neck. And then we are moving, swaying, a grind to our hips, a raw urgency to every glide and pump, the sounds he is making, low, guttural, and oh so sexy, driving me to the edge. Tension builds between us, and in my sex, that sweet spot spiking my nerve endings, and pushing me to that place of no return. My sex clenches like a vise around his shaft; every muscle in my body tenses with it. He groans, his hands flexing into my back and bottom, and he starts to shake. I think I am shaking too, and everything fades into bliss. I don’t know how much time goes by until I come to the present. And he is back too. I feel it like I feel him.

  “Hold on,” he murmurs, carrying me deeper into the darkness of the apartment. I don’t know where he is taking me, and I don’t care. I want more of him, wherever that takes us. Turns out, that’s the bathroom off the living room, where he flips on a light, and sets me on the counter by the sink. He grabs a towel, offering it to me before he pulls out, and snatches another to clean himself up, before tossing it into the hamper. “Stay rig
ht here,” he orders, already disappearing into the other room.

  I glance around a bathroom similar to the one upstairs, in that it’s all white, but this one is smaller with an egg-shaped tub. My mind is on how completely naked I feel right now, and how unsure I am about what to expect next. Shane returns, his sweatpants back in place, a T-shirt in his hand that he slips over my head. “Your uniform of my choice,” he says when it’s in place, resting his hands on either side of me. “I’m glad you’re here.”

  “You are?”

  “Yes,” he says. “I am.”

  “So am I.” I hesitate on what I want to say, but only for a moment. “You said trust is different than control.”

  “It is and I fully intend to show you how.”

  “And trust is important to you because of your family.”

  “Right again.”

  “Then I really need to tell you a few things.”

  I expect some sort of reaction, perhaps withdrawal in anticipation of what I might say, but he simply settles his hands on my waist. “I’m listening.”

  “I know you said we’re just fucking, but—”

  “Because I needed, we needed, to ‘just fuck,’ not because we’re the equation of a few random fucks. Be clear, sweetheart, for my part and I am sure yours, I could have called any number of fuck buddies tonight. I didn’t and that was because they aren’t you, and therefore they aren’t what I needed.”

  It’s everything I want to hear, and yet … “I’m confused, Shane. At the office, you said we are a problem, because your family is a problem.”

  “Trouble doesn’t begin to describe my family, but I’ll be damned if I want to give you up right now.”

  Right now. Inferring that he still intends to give me up later, which makes the confession I’d been about to make irrelevant. But I get him and understand where he’s at. His father is dying. He needs someone right now. Maybe he actually needs that to be me for some reason, and I want to be that someone. I reach up and cup his cheek. “I don’t want to give you up right now either.”

  “Well then,” he says. “I vote we order room service and actually enjoy it this time.”

  “I’d like that,” I say, and he lifts me off the sink, setting me on the ground in front of him, but we don’t move. We stand there, the way we do sometimes it seems, staring at each other. I know that we’ve just said we are all about right now, inferring later won’t matter, but there is something shifting between us, something warm and wondering, I don’t understand, but I want and need.

  He reaches down, lacing his fingers with mine, his lips slowly beginning to curve. My lips curve too, and suddenly, we’re smiling for no reason. He leads me forward, holding on to me as we walk, and I think that is part of what really gets to me with Shane. He holds on to me like he’s afraid he’ll lose me, when no one else does or cares.

  We reach the living room and I sit down on the couch. Shane doesn’t immediately join me, instead handing me a throw blanket before using a remote that ignites a sleek, glass-paneled fireplace in the far right corner. “I’ll grab the menu,” he says, leaving me feeling cozy and safe in a way I haven’t been in a very long time. He makes me feel safe, which is probably why I’ve told him things I shouldn’t have. Why I want to tell him everything, but I can’t bear the idea he will hate me, or he’ll end up hurt.

  “Here we go,” Shane says, placing the hardcover menu on the table in front of me. “How about a drink?”

  “I better not. I’m a lightweight and I might not make it home.”

  “A drink it is,” he says, placing his phone on top of the menu. “Room service is programmed in my numbers. Call down and order my regular egg white omelet and whatever you want. I’ll get the drinks.”

  I twist around to follow his progress to the bar behind me. “I feel like I’m invading your privacy tabbing through your phone.”

  “If I was worried about it,” he says, casting me a sideways look as he opens a glass decanter, “I wouldn’t give it to you.”

  I wouldn’t give it to me is the problem. Trapped in a huge lie and falling for a man who is swimming in a sea of those very same monsters, I leave the phone on the table, and wait for what turns out to be his quick return. “Cognac,” he announces, claiming the spot next to me, and setting two glasses on the table, before giving me a curious look. “You didn’t order the food, did you?”

  “Let’s just drink,” I say, picking up a glass and downing the sweet, potent liquid.

  “Emily,” he says, softly, setting the glass on the table. “What’s wrong?”

  I’m lying to you and I need to be honest in every way I can, I think, but I say, “We were talking about trust. Remember?”

  “I remember,” he says, his tone cautious now.

  “Okay then. Confession time. When I said I could never forgive you this morning, I’d already forgiven you. I just thought I had to do that to keep you away.”

  “And you did that why?”

  “There are things in my life I can’t and won’t involve you in.”

  He reaches over and strokes a lock of hair behind my ear. “What if I want to be involved?”

  “You barely know me.”

  “But I want to know you.” His voice is low, a silk caress on my raw nerve endings. “I’m not going to press you now, but when you’re ready, you can trust me.”

  “It’s not that simple.” And oh how I wish it were.

  “I’ll make it simple.”

  But he can’t make this simple and I quickly change the subject, before he doesn’t let me. “Your mother cornered me at the office tonight.”

  His reaction is to down his drink, refilling it, and hand mine back to me. I follow his lead, emptying my glass, a fog begging to take over my brain. “Whatever that is tastes good but I better stop before I forget how bad of a drinker I am.”

  “Tomorrow’s Saturday,” he says. “And I’ll take care of you. Have another.”

  “I don’t need to be taken care of, Shane.”

  “Tonight, with me, you do. Trust me enough to let that be okay.”

  “Trust. There you go with that word again. You keep saying it.”

  “I guess I do.” He empties his glass again.

  Now I give him a curious look. “You haven’t asked what happened with your mother.”

  “What happened is, my father refuses to let me tell her the cancer has moved from his brain to his lungs.”

  “Brain?” I gasp, setting down my glass. “He has brain cancer?”

  “Yes. And after six months of knowing, it still seems unreal.”

  “How can he have complete mental clarity if it’s bad enough to have moved?”

  “Complete mental clarity?” He laughs without humor. “That’s debatable. What happened with my mother?”

  “I don’t want to tell you now.”

  “Nothing can shock me with my family.”

  “I’m not so sure but okay. She offered me fifty thousand dollars to stick it out with your father through his illness and report to her on all of his activities.”

  He pauses with the glass to his lips, lowering it to ask, “And what did you say?”

  “My answer was no and she thought I was crazy, especially when I told her she could fire me.”

  “And she said?”

  “That I’m not fired and for me to have a good weekend. I’m not sure if she was testing me or really trying to use me.”

  “Why did you decline? That would have paid for a good portion of law school.”

  “That’s not how I want to pay for school. Unless you want me to help her? Because unless you tell me otherwise, the only person I’m giving information to is you and I’ll do that directly.”

  “Don’t give her anything,” he says, his statement all but confirming he doesn’t trust his mother, but then he turns around and sideswipes me with, “I’ll pay you the money.”

  Insulted and hurt, I’m on my feet in an instant, the blanket falling away, but he shackles my w
rist, dragging me down to the couch. “Fuck you, Shane,” I hiss, twisting around to face him. “I can’t be bought with sex or money.”

  “I didn’t mean it like that. You were loyal to me and I want to take care of you.”

  “I told you. I don’t need to be taken care of.”

  “And yet you took care of me by texting me that tip about Nina and refusing to feed information to my mother that could go to my brother. How is it wrong of me to want to protect you?”

  “I don’t want your money.”

  “All right. I’m sorry. It was just my instinct to give you what you gave up for me.” He lowers his forehead to mine. “Forgive me.”

  The apology tears down the wall I’ve instinctively erected, my anger sliding away with it, my hand curling on his cheek. “Yes.”

  Leaning back, he cups my face to look at me. “Thank you for what you did.” He leans in and brushes his lips over mine, his hands slipping under my shirt, his shirt, to scorch my bare skin. “Thank you for coming here tonight.” He drags the T-shirt over my head, tossing it aside, his gaze and fingers instantly on my nipples, which tighten with electric sensations. “I won’t bribe you with money,” he promises, his sizzling stare lifting to mine, “but sex is another story.”

  “What exactly is it that you want to bribe me for?”

  “I haven’t decided yet.” He lowers me to the couch, the deliciously heavy weight of him settling on top of me. “But,” he continues, “I am certain no answer I’ll come up with, including giving you your clothes back, will come to me any time soon.” His mouth closes down on mine, his tongue doing a sultry slide past my lips. I think right now I’d give him anything he’d ask for. Even the revelation of my secret, which I know I’d live to regret. And so would Shane.

  This is the life we chose, the life we lead. And there is only one guarantee: none of us will see heaven.

  —John Rooney

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN