by L.H. Cosway
I nodded and pulled out my phone. “Good thinking, Batman.”
Julian: Are you free for dinner tonight at my place? Rose is cooking.
Ellen: Feeling under the weather. Think it might be a cold. I don’t want to infect you.
Hmmm, I knew a brush off when I saw one.
Julian: I won’t take no for an answer. Quit letting your fears win.
Ellen: I don’t know what you’re talking about. I’m sick.
Julian: I’ll come over and get you myself.
A few minutes went by and I could tell she was talking herself around. She was obviously worried about meeting Rose and not being in costume. When she finally replied, it was a one-word answer.
Ellen: Fine.
I smiled as I typed.
Julian: That’s my girl.
Julian: Btw, Rose’s fiancé is Damon Atwood. He’ll be here, too. Just wanted you to have a chance to mentally prepare.
Ellen: What?!
Julian: See you at seven ;-)
I shut off my phone so she couldn’t try to talk her way out of it. Later that evening, the flat smelled amazing. When we were teenagers and had to fend for ourselves, Rose learned how to make cheap food taste good. Over time, she’d become an amazing cook. It was one of the reasons I missed living with her.
I helped set the table while she made the finishing touches. Damon was ensconced in the window nook, his head still buried in his novel. He’d been reading all day. Maybe I should get into the series, see what all the fuss was about.
I got a text on my phone.
Ellen: I’m outside.
Julian: Be there in a sec.
I glanced at Rose. “Ellen’s downstairs. Be nice when she comes up, okay?”
She shot me a look. “I’m always nice.”
“Well then, be extra nice.”
When I got downstairs, Ellen stood just outside the door, chewing on her thumbnail like a nervous wreck. “I’m not used to this,” she confessed.
I put my arm around her shoulders and pulled her close, automatically inhaling the smell of her hair. I was breaking all my rules for this woman, but I couldn’t stop now even if I tried.
“It’s just dinner with friends, nothing more. You’ll be fine.”
“Yeah, but you had to go and drop the “Damon Atwood” bomb on me then turn off your phone. I tried calling you. That was cruel.”
I squeezed her shoulders and led her inside. “Yes, well, I apologise for that, but this will be good for you. I promise. You’ll love Rose and Damon. They’re the most down to earth people you’ll ever meet. And you definitely need practice meeting people.”
“Yes, I suppose you’re right,” she sighed as I opened the door and motioned her inside.
Rose stood by the kitchen counter, smile in place. She wiped her hands off on a dishcloth and came toward us.
“Hi, Ellen, I’m Rose. It’s lovely to properly meet you.”
“And you,” Ellen mumbled and perhaps for the second time I got to see just how introverted she was. I’d witnessed it once before at the bookshop, when that group of tourists had come in, and I was seeing it again now.
She stared at the floor, hands in her pockets. Rose and I shared a look. The majority of times we’d been around other people, Ellen had been dressed as Elodie. But now she had no costume to hide behind, and the results were painful to watch.
Rose cleared her throat. “Well, I hope you like beef casserole, because I’ve made enough to feed a small army. Have a seat. Damon, come meet Ellen,” she called.
Damon rose from where he was sitting, book in hand. Ellen’s eyes widened when she saw him. Like most actors, Damon was striking in person. Well over six feet tall, with dark hair and even darker eyes, he was every inch a heartthrob. Ellen saw what he was reading, and she grew even more tense. Guess she wouldn’t be telling any stolen anecdotes tonight.
I put my hand to the base of her neck and gently massaged. She shivered at my touch and some of the tension left her. I thought of her face when she came on my tongue, how her lush lips fell open on a moan, how she breathed my name.
“Hi,” Damon said, almost as awkward with introductions as Ellen was.
“Hello,” Ellen answered so quietly she might as well not have spoken at all.
“So, Ellen, you live close by?” Rose asked, making conversation.
Damon helped her dish up the food and set it on the table. Ellen nodded but didn’t speak. This was going to be a long evening.
I wondered at how she could manage to conduct conversations with me, but not with other people. Perhaps it had to do with the fact I’d met her as Elodie first, and I knew more about her than most.
Rose, Damon, and I chatted about Damon’s latest project while we ate. Ellen remained quiet, only nodding intermittently at stuff we said.
“Did Damon tell you he’s hoping to buy the film rights for the Sasha Orlando books?” Rose put in animatedly.
“Yes,” I said, eyeing Damon. “Your directorial debut. Exciting times.”
“There’s this amazing dance scene in book one, Good Girl, Bad Lady, where Sasha goes for salsa lessons and flirts with her teacher,” Rose added. “Damon says I can choreograph it if the movie ever comes to fruition.”
Ellen dropped her cutlery, making a loud clatter as it fell against her plate.
“Sorry,” she muttered and went back to eating.
Damon ate a bite of casserole, not looking very confident. “Well, that’s if my agent can manage to convince the author’s agent to sell, and that’s a big if. Several movie houses have put in bids and all have been rejected. I’m hoping the author will like my vision. It’ll be an indie project, so it won’t have a big budget. But I think big budgets can sometimes ruin book adaptations. They use all these fancy costumes and wigs and CGI, and it all becomes a little cartoonish. I want to portray the story on screen in a way that feels real.”
Ellen appeared to be listening intently, surprising everyone when she spoke, “What do you mean, in a way that feels real?”
“Well,” Damon elaborated. “It’s not the popular opinion, but I feel like most film adaptations of books don’t work because they try to make it scene for scene the same as the novel. That’s okay when it’s fantasy or science fiction, that’s a whole different story. But when it’s contemporary, they try to make the actors look exactly like the characters, and it all just ends up feeling forced. I think that an adaptation should be just that, the story needs to be adapted to fit a different medium.”
“You’re right,” said Ellen. “There are things that happen in books that just don’t work on screen.”
Damon smiled softly. “Well, I’m glad you agree. Unfortunately, I don’t think my opinion will go down well. Most authors want everything in a movie to be exactly how it is in their book.”
Ellen played with her fork. “You should still give it a try. You never know.” Now she stood. “Excuse me, I need to use the bathroom.”
She went, and Rose lifted both eyebrows. “That woman is freaking terrified of us.”
“I told you she had difficulty with social interaction.”
“Yes, but this is a whole other level. She’s been silent since she got here.”
“Not true, she spoke to Damon just now.”
“I still think she should get help. Is she seeing a therapist or a councillor? It’s not healthy that the only way she can cope is by putting on a disguise and pretending to be this Elodie person.”
“Will you keep your voice down? She’ll hear you,” I hissed.
“Okay, I’m lost. What’s going on?” Damon asked.
“I’ll fill you in later,” Rose replied.
The bathroom door opened, but I didn’t hear a flush. I suspected Ellen had been freaking out in there rather than actually using the facilities. I knew she’d heard our conversation, despite our whispers, when she emerged with reddened eyes.
“I think I’m going to go home now,” she said, head down as she grabbed her coat
and made a beeline for the door.
“Ellen, wait,” I called and went after her. She was faster than I expected, reaching the bottom of the stairs before I caught up.
“Just let me go, Julian,” she begged and pushed open the door. It was raining out and I hadn’t brought a jacket. I still chased her, grabbing her elbow and pulling her around.
“What’s wrong with you?”
“I heard you all talking,” she sniffed, raindrops running down her cheeks. “You said you wouldn’t tell anyone about…about Elodie.”
“It’s just Rose. Rose would never—”
“That’s not the point, Julian. You promised!”
My chest deflated. “I only want to help.”
“Yes, well, helping me is more trouble than it’s worth. You don’t…you don’t know everything about me.”
I stepped forward and grabbed her hands. “Tell me then.”
“It’s not that easy,” she whispered. I hardly heard her over the passing traffic and the rain sploshing onto the footpath.
“Let’s go back upstairs. We can go into my room and talk in private. We’ll catch our death if we stay out here.”
Something in her eyes softened, and reluctantly, she nodded. “Okay.”
I took her hand and led her back inside. When we reached the flat, it appeared Rose and Damon had retreated into the spare bedroom. I grabbed some towels from the airing cupboard and brought Ellen into my room. I stripped her out of her coat and wrapped the towel around her shoulders. Her hair hung in ringlets around her face and a small tremble went through her.
“You’re freezing, come here.” I pulled off my shirt and wrapped my arms around her, rubbing up and down to try to warm her up. She dropped her head onto my shoulder.
“I’m so tired.”
“We didn’t get much sleep last night.”
After she woke up and found me enjoying a rare cigarette by the window, we’d talked for hours. She told me stories from her childhood, about her dad and her two brothers. I’d told her tales of Rose and I, battling against the odds to survive, two homeless teenagers in the wilds of London.
“I’m sorry if I acted like a weirdo in front of your friends.”
“It’s a good thing I adore weirdos.”
She laughed softly and snuggled closer. “It’s just that everyone seems to be reading those books and…” she trailed off. I had a hunch where this was going.
“It’s okay, Ellen. I already know.”
She pulled away a little, brow furrowing as she peered at me. “You do?”
“Rose talks about Sasha Orlando all the time. It wasn’t too hard to figure out.”
She stood, the towel falling away, wet hair hanging over her shoulder. “I don’t understand.”
I stood, too, and took both her hands in mine. “Ellen, I put two and two together a while ago.”
Her head moved slowly from side to side, disbelieving. “But how?”
“When we went to the wedding with David, you told everyone that story about the fireman, and I realised you’d stolen it from one of those books. Rose had recounted it for me just a few nights previous. Like I said, she talks about that series all the time.”
Her face showed consternation. She let go of my hands and turned around, staring at my bedroom walls when she said, “You think I’ve been stealing the stories.”
“Ellen, it’s okay. I’m not judging you.”
She turned around, her expression fierce. “Julian, I never stole anything. Those stories are mine.”
“They’re from the books—”
“No,” she interrupted. “You still don’t get it. The stories are mine because I wrote them. I’m the author of the Sasha Orlando series.”
Chapter Seventeen
Ellen
Julian gaped at me. I was pretty sure this was the first time I’d seen him truly shocked.
My own books seemed to be haunting me everywhere I went these days and I couldn’t keep it to myself any longer. When he thought I was stealing the stories for Elodie’s anecdotes, I had to tell him the truth. They were my books. I’d written them. And I was damn proud of what I’d created.
“You wrote those books?” Julian questioned. “Seriously?” He didn’t sound disbelieving, but it definitely knocked him a little.
“Yes,” I said, sheepish. “And I didn’t inherit my house from my grandmother either.”
He ran a hand through his hair, then dropped back down onto his bed. “No, I don’t imagine you did.”
He stared at the wall for a second, then brought his gaze to me. “So, all that time you spend alone in your house, you don’t just talk to Rainbow and Skittles. You write books?”
“Uh huh.”
A slow smile crept across his face. “You’re an international bestselling author.”
“Yes.”
His smile transformed into a full-on grin. “That’s incredible, Ellen.” A moment of quiet fell between us before he spoke again. “But, I don’t understand why you wouldn’t tell anyone.”
I gave a humourless laugh. “It doesn’t exactly come up a lot in conversation, not that I have many casual conversations with people.”
Julian stared at me in fascination, like all the puzzle pieces were finally falling into place for him. “You’re amazing.”
“I make stuff up for a living. I’m pretty good at it, but I wouldn’t go so far as to say it’s amazing.”
He stood, took my face in his hands and gazed right into my eyes. “Ellen, you are the most amazing, interesting, and unexpected person I’ve ever met.”
I swallowed. “That’s…um, thanks.”
His lips curved appreciatively as he whispered, “You’re welcome,” then he took my mouth in a deep, sensual, mind-melting kiss. My knees almost went out from under me. It was a good thing he lifted me, turned us then threw me onto the bed. I heaved a shaky breath as he crawled up my body and kissed me again just as deeply.
“Wait, wait,” I breathed. “We can’t.”
He stroked my hair away from my face, his voice low and husky. “Why can’t we?”
“B-because this isn’t an arranged meeting. It’s unofficial.”
“Unofficial sex is the best kind,” he countered and planted kisses down my neck. I moaned and threw my head back, unable to help myself. We’d only spent one night together, but I was already addicted to his kisses, his touch.
He was under my skin, in my veins.
When I closed my eyes at night, all I saw was him. He invaded my heart and soul. I couldn’t stop thinking about him. This wasn’t just about sex, it was about the very heart of Julian.
Ever since I met him, my life had opened up, like a rose coming into bloom.
He licked his way from my throat to my earlobe, whispering, “I hope you’re ready for this, Ellen, because I’m going to fucking eat you alive.”
I shivered.
Julian peeled away my shirt and unhooked my bra in a matter of seconds. The cool air hit my skin and my nipples instantly hardened. He removed my glasses then kissed his way down my chest, taking a nipple in his mouth. A whoosh of air escaped me at the soft, wet pressure of his tongue.
His eyes flicked up, and I was hooked. He was all predator and I was all willing victim.
He released my nipple with a pop. His voice was rich, dark, like expensive whiskey. “What shall I do with you now?”
My throat went dry. I lay immobile and forced myself to reply. “Do whatever you want with me.”
His eyes were dazzling, his lips curving in a way that told me that was the right answer. “As you wish.”
Quick as a flash he flipped me over. I felt his mouth at my calf, then it moved up to the back of my thigh. His lips whispered across the crest of my bottom and I grew wet. From behind, his fingers slipped between my legs, testing, searching. He pulled down the elastic of my knickers and kissed the spot at the very base of my spine. It sent a shimmering, tickling sensation right up my back, lingering in the curve of my neck.
I made a sound like guh as I pressed my face into his pillow. It smelled like him, and I was drowning, no hope of swimming to the surface.
“So soft.” His hand moved further between my legs; he pulled my underwear down and threw them to the floor. Skin to skin, he touched the folds of my sex and I undulated beneath him. He slid two fingers inside me and I cried out. My body wasn’t accustomed to being touched like this, so everything he did was magnified.
He bit my bottom and I let out a surprised yelp. Julian grazed his teeth along my hip, a growl emanating from deep in his throat. Breathless, I turned around to face him. His pale skin had hints of olive tones, his torso muscular but not overly so. I soaked in the sight of him. It was one of the few times I’d seen an almost naked male body up close and I was a little mesmerised.
“Can I just…look at you for a second?”
His eyes were pure sin as he repeated my own words back at me. “You can do whatever you want to me.”
I let my head fall back into the pillows and just, well, stared. Julian rose to stand at the foot of the bed, his hands going to his trousers. He undid the fly and pushed them down. In nothing but his boxer briefs, his erection was evident and my cheeks heated. Julian held my gaze, practically reading my mind as he pushed his boxers down to reveal his throbbing cock. My eyelids fluttered, and I lowered my gaze, unable to help gawking.
Every part of him was beautiful. It was clear why women paid to sleep with him. He was the man of your fantasies, the one you had sexy dreams about. When you woke up, you willed yourself back to sleep.
He merely stood there, letting me look my fill, but the expression on his face was what captivated me most of all. He appeared fascinated by my appreciation of his naked form.
“Is it okay if I touch you?”
His eyes heated. “You don’t have to ask permission, Ellen.”
I reached out and ran my hand along the V at his hip, then up to stroke his abdomen, and higher to his pectoral. His chest rose and fell, and I wondered if he was feeling this as intensely as I was. I pressed my lips to his stomach and his muscles jumped. When I looked up to check if I’d done anything wrong, his face was a picture of male need.