“Eli.” I grip his arm to stop him. “That’s too far.”
He looks me over and decides I’m serious. “I’m parked at the office,” he says. “It’s a block over.”
“You want to drive?”
“No, I’m too drunk. But the garage is empty, and I’m parked in the corner. We can...”
“Fuck in your car?”
“My truck, yeah.”
I have got to stop this. It’s ridiculous. The drinking, the pub, the company... Sex in someone’s truck? I lost my virginity in the front seat of a Porsche, but my days of screwing in cars are behind me. I open my mouth to say as much and suggest we go our separate ways, but stop when I realize how damp my inner thighs are and remember the sight of Eli’s glistening finger. It won’t take much, I think. And who cares if it’s a truck, as long as there’s no one around?
“Let’s go,” I say. “Fast.”
His shoulders sag in relief. “Thank Christ.” My jacket’s balled in his fist and I see the prominent bulge in his pants, reminding me I’m not the only one feeling this inexplicable, ridiculous urge.
We hustle over to the King Building, and Eli pulls out his keys to let us in the fire door at the side. The stairwell extends up too far to see, and down to a dull ring of light on the ground a few floors below. “This way,” he says. “I’m on the third level.”
I hobble after him and a minute later we emerge into the dark and cavernous parking garage, nearly empty at this hour. The people who work hard enough to stay this late are parked on the first level, but down here I can only make out a handful of cars, scattered haphazardly throughout.
“Over here.” True to his word, Eli’s parked in the far corner. He drives a dark blue recent-model pickup truck with a thick bench front seat. He opens the passenger side door and, for the first time, hesitates. The interior light shines down on the wide expanse of leather, and I peer past him, relieved to see it’s clean and smells like nothing more than new car.
“What’s wrong?”
“This isn’t exactly nice,” he says, running the back of his hand over his mouth.
“I don’t want nice,” I assure him, dropping my bag in the footwell. “And I’m sure you’ve heard I’m not nice. I want you to make me come so I know I didn’t injure my feet beyond all repair for nothing.”
“And you don’t want me to call you tomorrow.”
“That’s right.”
“Is this for real?”
I grip his erection through the soft fabric of his pants, and stroke him hard. “Have you changed your mind?”
He hoists my skirt over my hips and fists my panties in one hand, dragging them down so I can step out. Then he lifts me onto the seat and presses his palm against my chest, urging me to lie back. I hear the rustle of fabric and the slide of his zipper, then the crinkle of foil as he opens a condom and smoothes it on. I reach up and flip off the overhead light, enclosing us in darkness, and a second later I feel Eli crawl in over me, the truck too high for him to fuck me standing up.
He drags the head of his cock through my aching folds, circling my clit until I moan in frustration. “Do it,” I order, pulling on his shoulders. He snags my hands in one of his and pins them against my chest, then reaches down to cover my swollen center with his fingers, pushing two inside.
I give a startled, slightly pained cry at the pressure, and Eli lowers his mouth to mine, providing a distraction as he slowly stretches me, stroking somewhere deep inside that makes my stomach muscles flutter. And then I forget all about the fingers and the ache as something builds and builds, though every time I get close to coming he stops what he’s doing and does something else. The darkness and the weight of him is like a cocoon, and everything is swirled into one big, pulsing ball of need. He traces the seam of my mouth with his tongue and bites my bottom lip until I open, then he pushes inside and kisses me, wet and dark and dirty, like few have ever dared.
“Eli,” I gasp, when he keeps flicking my clit, his weight holding me in place, rendering me unable to do more than endure it. “You have to... I need... I want...”
“If I only get one shot, I want you to remember it,” he says.
“I will. I promise.” Fuck. What the hell am I saying? I’m the memorable one. I’m the one he’ll see on the cover of Chicago’s Finest and think, Yep, she’s the best. But I don’t point that out right now. Because this IT guy seems to have taken me seriously and is finally—finally—fitting his cock to my entrance and pushing inside in one thick, determined push. I knew he was big when I felt him in the bar, but this new pressure makes me squirm, desperate to accommodate him.
“That okay?” he asks, the words muffled in my neck as he buries himself to the hilt. I hear his frantic breathing, feel sweat from his temple brush against mine, and know I’m not alone in this.
This time when I say, “You’re so big,” I’m not saying it to stroke his ego, I’m saying it for both of us, a warning and an accolade.
“You want me to go down on you first?”
My eyes squeeze closed at the invitation. I actually hate being on the receiving end of oral sex. It’s something the men I’ve been with have been relieved by—”Oh, really? Well, okay!”—but I appreciate Eli making the offer. “No, just go slow for now.”
“You got it.” His hips move tentatively at first, dragging out, forging back in, delicate tissues parting as though they have a choice. He grinds himself against my swollen clit on every inward thrust, and kisses my neck, my mouth, mumbling incoherent sentences about how good it feels, how none of it makes sense. And like those videos where babies seem to be communicating through gibberish, I totally understand.
After a few brutal minutes I can’t take it anymore. I’m stretched and open and I’ll die if I don’t come. “Harder,” I urge, freeing one hand to grip his ass and dig my nails into the firm muscles.
“Thank fuck.” He bucks against me and grips my knee, pulling me almost painfully wide as he really starts to move, now that he has permission. He drives into me with deep, determined thrusts, his other hand fisted in my hair like an anchor, the slight sting making me close my eyes to absorb his penetration. I hear nothing but our strangled breathing and slapping flesh, and none of it matters as I barrel headlong into pleasure, spinning end over end into something that feels like every orgasm I’ve ever had, all wrapped up in one.
I grip his shirt and bury my face in the fabric to muffle my cries, still aware enough to want to avoid alerting a security guard to our activities. My pulsing walls grip Eli so tightly he gives up thrusting and just jams his hips against mine, hard enough to bruise, his release dragged out of him against his will if his heartfelt groan is any indication.
And then, sometime, somehow, later, it’s over. It’s dark and hot and smells like sex and I cannot believe I just did this. I’m more stunned than I was when I realized I forgot to attach the power of attorney. More surprised than I was to hear the partners announce my mandatory holiday. More startled than I was to find Eli standing over me at The Lonely Goat. And yet, unlike those instances, I have no response. No course of action comes to mind. I’m supposed to move, but my limbs flatly refuse. I should probably say something, but my brain is somewhere else. So instead I absorb the rapid pounding of Eli’s heart against my chest, and think about the relieved ache between my legs, and thank God I said this was a one-time thing, since there’s no way I’d get any work done if I could be doing this instead.
“You okay?” he asks eventually, the words fuzzy.
It’s still hard to breathe, partly because of his crushing weight, in part because I’m still winded. “Yes. You?”
“Yeah.” He pushes up slowly and reaches between us as he pulls out and stands, cursing under his breath and bracing himself against the truck for a second. I see his shadowy profile disappear from view as he leaves to dispose of the cond
om and straighten himself. My muscles screech in protest as I sit up and get out, too, fixing my skirt and collecting my panties from the ground, stuffing them in my purse.
Eli returns and we face each other, and I’m sure we’re both grateful for the lack of light. “You want me to take you home?” he asks.
“I’ll get a cab.”
“That’s what I meant. I’ll pick up the truck tomorrow.”
“I should probably...”
“Ah.” He rubs the back of his neck. “Right. Don’t come to your office.”
“I didn’t mean...”
“I know. I’ll help you get a cab. Can you walk?”
I frown. He has a big cock, but I can certainly still—Oh. He’s looking at my bare feet, toes curled against the concrete, reluctant to be forced back into my heels. “I’ll manage.” But it hurts so much to put on my shoes that I leave the parking garage barefoot, and grip Eli’s bicep for balance at the curb as I squeeze back into the heels while he flags down a cab.
“Best fuck of my life, Caitlin Dufresne,” he says, reaching down to open the back door.
The streetlights here are brighter, and the muted glow from nearby buildings illuminates everything. I study his face for hidden meaning, but though the words might be crude, there’s nothing but sincerity in his gaze. “Me, too,” I tell him.
“That so?”
I slide into the backseat and look up at him, pressing my index finger to my lips, the universal sign for “Don’t tell anyone.”
“What happens in The Lonely Goat,” he says, closing the door and letting me go.
Chapter Six
Never in my life have I come to work with a hangover. Hell, I’ve never even shown up to class with one. If I did go out, it was with a strictly adhered-to two-drink maximum, and I never break my own rules. Last night was extremely out of character, and as I ease my tender ladyparts into the seat at my desk with a soft hiss, I remember why my rules exist. Except, some horny, shrill part of me pipes up, they exist to keep you focused on your job, which, at the moment, you barely have.
I’ve already had three meetings this morning, agonizingly tedious sessions with coworkers to explain the finer details of my cases—now their cases—while pretending I felt fine. Everyone knows about my mandatory summer hours and I know they’re all waiting to see me flip out, but while the temptation is there, I’m too smart to give in to it. I’m looking at the bigger picture, and if a bit of suffering in the name of “teamwork” is what it takes for the bigger office in LA, then I can tolerate it. Even if four extra-strength ibuprofen tablets aren’t quite enough to dull the ache. Or the unrelenting barrage of mental images that have me squirming for a completely different reason.
My phone beeps and I wince as Belinda’s voice rings out of the tinny speaker. “Caitlin. Eli Hendricks on line three for you.”
My heart stops, and the dull throb between my legs increases. I’ve gone longer than three months without sex before, but never have I been so thoroughly and satisfyingly tormented and fucked. It’s kind of tragic, I decide when I run through the mental list of supposedly impressive men I’ve been with. Men who, on paper, should have been able to do what Eli—the IT guy—did last night.
Well, anyway. I can’t keep dwelling on it. I’d meant it when I told him last night was a one-time thing. I may not have much work to be distracted from at the moment, but this is just a temporary lull, and as soon as the partners haul their heads out of their asses I’ll jump right back in the ring and be too busy to worry about a booty call. And, truth be told, I don’t want to hurt Eli’s feelings. One thing the other men I’ve dated have had in common is that they weren’t any more emotionally invested in the relationship than I was. They didn’t care when I worked late or left early or took a call in the middle of dinner. Somehow, I don’t imagine Eli is that kind of guy. He’s the normal kind. The kind I have nothing in common with.
“Caitlin?”
I jump when Belinda’s voice booms out again. “What?”
“Eli Hendricks—”
Oh. Yes. Right. I take a deep breath as my thoughts restore themselves and I remember that Eli Hendricks is a longtime client of mine, four-foot-eleven on a good day, nothing like tall, broad, cocky Eli Grant who—Dammit. Stop.
“Thank you, Belinda. I’ve got it.” And while I’ve always liked Eli Hendricks, it takes everything I’ve got to sound like I’m pleased it’s his voice on the other end of the line when I pick up.
* * *
I give Joseph Morgan an insincere finger wave and a smile when I stroll out of the office at six o’clock on Wednesday. He does a double take at my early departure, then manages a perplexed return wave as I step into the elevator. I’m the only one leaving this early, so I’m alone when the car stops on the twenty-fifth floor and River Smith, style editor of Chicago’s Finest, gets on.
“Caitlin Dufresne,” he says, checking his watch with an exaggerated frown. “What are you doing out of your office while it’s still light outside? Is there a fire on thirty-two?”
My laugh is genuine. I’d seen River around the building for the past couple of years, and he was the one who had approached me with the offer to appear in the magazine after the Fowler settlement. We’ve always had chemistry but he’d been in a relationship at the time, though I know that’s since fizzled. My crazy hours limit our contact, but I enjoy flirting when I see him. Today, however, I see his beauty more objectively. His million-dollar smile, manicured hands, pristine suit, slicked-back hair. Everything about him is flawless, like the perfect accessory. And nothing like the khaki-wearing, Converse-favoring, IT guy a few floors below us.
“Seriously,” River prompts as we pass the seventeenth floor and I let out a breath that’s equal parts relieved and disappointed when we don’t stop. “Is everything okay?”
I shake my head to clear it. “Sorry, yes. I mean, no. No fire. Everything’s fine. Just distracted.”
“Big case?”
I open my mouth to tell him I’m on pseudo-holiday, then close it. How will it look when they put me on the cover as the city’s best young lawyer and I promptly take an unexpected—and completely forced—vacation? “I can’t talk about it,” I say instead, trying to sound mysterious.
“Ah.” River cocks an interested brow. “Do you have plans tonight?”
Any other night—since the inane summer hours—I’d have jumped at the question, but tonight I’ve been roped into taking Dorrie to her softball game, since Layla, the teammate she usually rides with, is out of town. “I do,” I say, with an apologetic-yet-promising smile. Let River think I have an active and enviable social life—and an active and enviable career. No sense allowing him to lose interest until I’ve decided I feel that way first. And I’m sure I’m still interested. Give me a few days to put this Eli interlude behind me, and things will be back to normal.
* * *
Dorrie chatters nonstop on the way to her game. She’s dressed in her team uniform, which consists of a ghastly pink polyester top with peeling black letters that spell The Closers across her chest. Unfortunately most of the C has chipped off, and it looks like she plays for The losers, which, given their tragically skewed win-loss record, isn’t that far off the mark.
Someone swerves in front of us and I slam on the brakes, sending a wave of trash rolling around in the backseat. I don’t have a car but Susan does, and though she’s one of the city’s best neurosurgeons, she’s a disgusting slob. The meticulous and organized doctor goes out the window when she gets in the car, and every food wrapper, empty can, discarded magazine, newspaper and crossword puzzle to have ever passed through her fingers litters the backseat. And now the floor, and a little bit of the front seat.
“Do you think this is still okay to eat?” Dorrie asks, holding up a half-eaten Snickers.
“No.” I swat it out of her
hand. “We’ll probably get hepatitis from just sitting in here.” I know Susan uses her car as a hideout when she needs a break from the hectic pace of work and home, but I didn’t know she used it as a dumping ground. By the time I’d gotten home, changed and wrangled Dorrie into getting ready, we didn’t have time to clean the car. We’d shoved trash off our seats, lined them with pages from an old newspaper and hoped for the best.
“What’s hepatitis?”
“Don’t touch anything in here and maybe you won’t find out.”
“Can I turn the music back on?”
“No.”
Part of Susan’s relaxation strategy is to blare ‘90s rap music while she hides in here and stuffs her face. I’d been temporarily deafened when I turned the key in the ignition and Eminem screeched out at me at top volume. More alarming was Dorrie’s familiarity with the lyrics.
We reach the park, which is just a dinky, poorly maintained field with a small gravel parking lot, a single set of bleachers already filled with parents and two stubby benches that serve as dugouts. “You go ahead,” I tell Dorrie. “Get warmed up. I’ll be there in a few minutes.”
“‘Kay.” She grabs her bag and leaps out of the car, running across the lot to the field.
I’d changed into shorts and a red tank top and left my hair in its topknot, but even though I’m in dire need of a tan—or so I’m told—it’s very hot outside and I’d rather linger in the air-conditioned interior of Susan’s dirty car than slowly melt while watching a bunch of ten-year-olds do cartwheels. A suspicious rustling from the backseat has me scrambling out a minute later, however, taking with me two empty slushie cups and half a bag of stale cheese puffs.
I toss the items in a nearby garbage can, then stride toward the field, pausing as a big blue pickup speeds toward me. It turns into a spot a few slots away and I take another four steps before a prickly feeling on the back of my neck makes me stop and peer from the corner of my eye. It had been too dark to really see Eli’s truck two nights ago, and I don’t know enough about cars to say for certain that the blue pickup he’d nailed me in is the one now ten feet away, but as unlikely as it is, the six-foot-something man climbing out of this truck is definitely Eli Grant. And he’s staring at me, mouth half-open, equal parts shocked and amused. Then he tosses back his head and laughs uproariously. I glance around to be sure we’re alone, then close the distance between us.
In Her Defense Page 6