“Sorry,” Eli offers. “I shouldn’t have made you stay.”
“I understand. You like losing teams.”
He shoots me a wry smile, but instead of opening my door and kicking me out for blaspheming, he steers us out of the lot and in the general direction of my apartment. We’re the only vehicle stopped at the intersection when the light turns green, and for a moment, Eli doesn’t move. My apartment is twelve blocks ahead; I’d given him the address on Monday. “Do you want me to take you home?”
I glance over, but it’s hard to see his face in the darkness. “As opposed to?”
“You know what I’m asking.”
I frown a little, watching the light turn red. We haven’t moved an inch.
Eli sighs. “Do you want to come over, Caitlin? I’ll give you some dry clothes. We can do whatever you want. Not do whatever you don’t want. Come on. I’m not good at this.”
“Who says?”
“I screwed you in the front seat on Monday. Made you stay at a baseball game in the rain. Fed you a fucking hot dog. I’m not that fancy magazine guy. I’m not Haines. I don’t know how to be, and I don’t want to be. What I do want is for you to come over to see what happens when we’re sober, when the lights are on, when there’s no one around to hear you scream.”
“I didn’t scr—”
“And no ‘just once’ clause, either. I’m going to need all night, and probably most of tomorrow. I want as much time as it takes to learn all the things you like, and even more time to discover all the things you don’t think you like, of which there appear to be many. In fact, we might need Sunday, too.”
The light turns green again, and this time there’s a car behind us. I can’t decide if I’m trembling because I’m hot or cold, embarrassed or incredibly turned on. Okay, fine. I’m seriously turned on. Because Eli’s matter-of-fact honesty is more arousing than any dirty talk I’ve ever heard. His sincerity, the way his big hand grips the wheel just a little too tightly, belying his nerves, touches me somewhere I didn’t even know existed. I meet his stare. “I’m glad you’re not Haines.”
He inhales slowly. “Is that a yes?”
I think of my tangled hair, smudged eye makeup, water-logged sneakers. Right now I’m not the girl who dated Haines. Until Monday, I’m not so sure I’d ever seen the inside of a pickup truck. I do, however, want to see what Eli has to offer, no matter how imperfect it may be. I’ve been doing a lot of things I don’t usually do, and so far they’ve led me here. “Let’s go,” I say.
Chapter Eight
Eli lives on the top floor of an old house that’s divided into three apartments, one on each level. It’s too dark to see much, but it’s located in a nice, quiet area, with older homes and tree-lined streets. Once inside, he explains that the bottom units are still being renovated and leads me up a narrow flight of stairs, opening the top door and gesturing for me to enter first.
To be honest, I’d been expecting something like this. Something old and unfinished, with maybe an air mattress and an unzipped sleeping bag for a bed. I’m feeling a little cocky when the lights flicker on and my jaw drops. The place is gorgeous. “Eli,” I begin, not sure where I’m going with the sentence. He nudges me inside and shuts the door, and I step out of my squishy shoes so I don’t track mud across the pristine white oak floors. It’s bright and roomy, with an open kitchen to the left and an unexpectedly stylish and modern living room on the right. The finishes are high-end, everything is clean and there’s no air mattress in sight.
“This is it,” he says, hesitating at my side.
“You don’t really live here.”
His mouth quirks. “I do.”
“It’s so...clean.”
“Do you like it?”
“I’m in shock.”
“I’ll give you a tour.”
I follow wordlessly, taking in a home office with a large computer setup, what looks like blueprints spread over a second desk, and a number of boxes and tools. There’s a spacious guest bathroom with dual sinks and a soaker tub, and the master bedroom, with a king-size bed—neatly made—and a set of sliding doors leading to a balcony Eli tells me looks over the unfinished backyard.
“You live here?” I ask again. “For real? This isn’t a model house you stole the keys for?”
“It’s all mine.”
“Where’s your stuff?”
“You’re looking at it.”
“Yes, but...” I pause, taking in the bedside tables, a single book and alarm clock on one. The top of the dresser is bare, and while there’s art on the walls, there are no pictures of family or friends. “Where’s the personal stuff?”
Eli sees what I’m getting at and shoots me an unimpressed look, tugging open a drawer to reveal a row of neatly folded shirts. Another drawer for socks and underwear, another with sweatshirts. He tugs open the doors to a walk-in closet full of neatly arranged clothing, including his standard khakis and button-ups. “Satisfied?”
I stare at him suspiciously and backtrack to the kitchen, opening the refrigerator to find more groceries than I typically have—eggs and milk, lettuce and leftover pizza. There are clean dishes in the dishwasher, and trash in the trash can. He’s telling the truth, and he knows it, watching me smugly. “Look at whatever you want,” he says, waving a hand around the room. “I keep the bodies on the second floor.”
“It’s just so...nice.”
“I like symmetry,” he says. “And symmetry is nice.”
“Why is it so clean?”
“Are you a slob?”
“Of course not.”
“Then what’s the problem? I’m tidy.”
“Tidy.”
“Uh-huh.”
I curl my fingers around a drawer handle. “What’s in here?”
“Cutlery.”
I tug it open. Forks and knives. I move to the next one. “This one?”
“Dish towels.”
Right again.
I give a start of surprise when he flicks his driver’s license across the granite island countertop. It spins to a stop and I pick it up, reading carefully. The address matches, the name’s the same. Thirty-three years old, six foot one, two hundred and ten pounds. Brown hair and eyes. “This is who I am,” he says, coming close enough to pluck the card from my fingers and tuck it back into his wallet. “Take it or leave it.”
I shiver, though whether it’s because of my wet hair and clothes or my relief to be wrong about something—for once—remains to be seen. “Come on,” he says, tugging on my sleeve. “You can take a shower and warm up.”
I trail after him back into the master bedroom, where he switches on the light for an en suite I hadn’t seen and grabs a neatly folded towel from under the sink. This bathroom is even bigger and nicer than the first, with an enormous tub and a separate glassed-in shower. I hate to say it, but Eli’s place is nicer than mine. Even without the obvious personal touches and despite my earlier suspicions, it somehow feels like him. Like something I can’t predict, didn’t expect and like anyway.
“This is really nice.”
“Thank you. I’ll show you the bodies later.”
I meet his gaze in the mirror and smile ruefully. “Sorry.”
“Don’t be. Ask me whatever you want.”
He reaches into the shower and turns on the water, adjusting it until he’s satisfied. “Take your time. You want something to drink when you get out? I’ve got wine, vodka, coffee, tea.”
I turn so we’re face-to-face, just a couple feet separating us. Eli’s clothes are as wet as mine, though the jersey’s thick enough that it just hangs limply instead of clinging to his body. “You aren’t going to join me?” I ask, undoing the button at the top of my shorts.
Eli swallows and his eyes darken a shade. “Is that an option
?”
I’ve seduced enough men to know what I’m doing, but still somehow my fingers tremble as they lower the zipper on my shorts and let the soggy fabric fall to the floor so I’m left in a pair of pink cotton panties and my wet White Sox T-shirt. “I hope so.”
Eli steps forward and slowly lifts his hands to cup my face, the gesture endearingly cautious and deliberate, like he’s making sure it’s okay. When he lowers his mouth to kiss me it’s nothing like the first time, drunk and dirty. This is unexpectedly sweet, slow passes of his lips across mine, eventually nudging them open, sliding his tongue inside, just briefly. I shudder and he steps back to peel my shirt over my head, eyes lingering on my breasts, barely contained in my lacy demi-bra. He makes a sound low in his throat and reaches behind to undo the clasp, letting the bra fall to the floor and covering my breasts with his hands, swiping his palms back and forth across my tight nipples. The heat of his skin on my chilled flesh prompts fresh goose bumps of an entirely different variety.
“Eli,” I breathe, the intensity on his face ramping up my arousal.
He hooks his thumbs under the sides of my panties and kneels as he pulls them down, putting his face level with my crotch. I try to tell myself we’ve done this before, but we haven’t, not really. Not with the lights on. Not sober.
He leans in to press a kiss to the small thatch of curls covering my mound and I resist the urge to jump away, letting his warm breath reach my skin before sliding my fingers in his hair and tipping his head back. I smile down at him, a successful distraction, and step toward the shower. “Get undressed,” I tell him.
I step into the foggy glass confines, hot water beating down from both sides, and I can’t hide my moan when tense muscles release under the pressure. Eli joins me seconds later and I curse myself for not watching him strip, not using the brief opportunity to study him as he’d studied me. Now he’s close, pressing us together, kissing me again, deeper than before, more thoroughly. He cups my breasts, strokes my back, my ass, the tops of my thighs. I feel his erection against my belly, hot and hard, and reach down to grasp him, hoping to speed things along.
He makes a sound deep in his throat and jerks in my hand, tolerating the touch for a minute before covering my fingers with his own and pulling them away. He lowers himself to the marble shower bench so his face is once again level with my core. I’m wet and aching, and this time it has nothing to do with the weather. I flinch when he trails his fingers up the inside of my thigh and strokes one right through my folds, just as he’d done that night at The Lonely Goat.
“C’mere,” he murmurs, sliding a hand behind my knee, urging me to lift my leg to rest one foot on the bench. This exposes me almost unbearably, and I feel myself tensing as I watch him, dark eyes hooded and focused on my most intimate parts. He leans in to trail kisses across my belly, hands sliding down my back to cup my ass, tugging me apart, dropping lower so fingers from both hands open me to his gaze.
“Eli.”
He traces me with his fingers, barely dipping inside, stroking from front to back. I feel warm gusts of air on my clit but I can’t tell if it’s the steam or his breath. All I know is his mouth can’t give me what his cock can, and I want him inside me, stretching me like he’d done on Monday. I need the same burning fullness, the feel of him between my legs, taking what he wants. I need to feel him come apart, not focus on doing the same to me.
I don’t come apart. I can come, no problem. I’ve been with plenty of men who did that part very well. What they didn’t do was look at me with this same fascination, this same caution, like I was giving them some sort of gift or opportunity and they wanted to make the most of it. It’s making me antsy, his sincerity, his absolute disregard for the erection that’s straining against his stomach, desperate for the same thing I want.
“Eli,” I repeat when he slides his tongue through my wet curls and strokes it over my clit. My insides clench and my mind starts racing, the familiar dread of losing my arousal taking over. I cannot come this way. I never have. I start thinking about anything and everything, instead of focusing on the main objective. “Eli,” I say again, when his tongue circles my opening. “I don’t want that right now.” Or ever. “I want you. Inside me.”
I try to lower myself onto his lap, but he shakes his head and prevents me from straddling him. He looks up into my face, eyes glazed with need, but there’s something else there, too, something I can’t put my finger on. Something that...knows. But all he does is stand so he towers over me, backing me into the foggy glass wall and holding me there with his chest, fucking my mouth with his tongue the way he’d intended to do farther down. I feel the scratch of his fingertips as they slide over my belly and slip between my legs, one finger pressing inside.
I imagine I feel the way a starving person might when given a single bite of food: I need more. A lot more. “Eli, fuck me,” I order.
“Shh.”
“What?” I pull back my head and glare at him. “Shh?”
He arches a brow imperiously. “That’s right. Shh. Let me do this.” His hand moves slightly, but he’s not trying to make me come, he’s trying to open me.
“Eli. I want your cock.”
“Mmm-hmm.” A second finger joins the first, more cautiously than it had on Monday, inching in so carefully I groan in frustration.
“Faster,” I plead. I’m dancing on my tiptoes, not able to do much more than that with his fingers inside me. I clutch his ears and bring his face down to mine, kissing him for all I’m worth, desperate to make him hurry, make him as needy as I am.
“Come,” he murmurs against my lips. “Come like this.”
“I don’t want to. I want you inside me.”
“I plan to be. After.”
“Eli!”
“What’s the big deal, Caitlin? You can’t come this way?”
“I—”
“I heard you on Monday,” he adds.
I still. “Heard what?”
“That little sound you made. Like I hurt you. I don’t want to hear it tonight. I’m not perfect, but I’m not an asshole, either.”
“Eli, you didn’t—I didn’t—” I curse in frustration. “It had just been a while. Honest. I’m ready.”
“Tell me how to get you off with my fingers.”
I press a hand to my brow and look up at him, wondering what the problem is. Then I wonder what my problem is. It’s not like I haven’t had orgasms like this before. I have. Plenty. And it’s nice of him to want to do this. I shouldn’t argue. But I’m so far out of my comfort zone I’m not sure I can.
“I don’t think I can,” I mutter into his shoulder.
He lowers his lips to the top of my head, so I feel them move through my wet hair. “Are you telling me you can only come from intercourse? Because you’ll be the first woman I’ve ever met with that ‘problem.’” He probes me with a third finger and slowly presses in, making my breath hitch. “I’m not going to force you, Caitlin, but I don’t get off on hurting people.”
I cling to his biceps, willing myself to calm down. Despite my anxiety, my body is thrumming, clit swollen, core clamping eagerly on his fingers. But it’s my head that’s getting in the way, and if he doesn’t just take me, I’m not going to be able to get off. He has to stop being so considerate. Using my name, trying to make me comfortable. The men I’ve been with weren’t uncaring assholes, but I may have been. Sex is a physical thing for me, not mental, and Eli’s in my head.
“Please,” I gasp. “I can’t do this if I’m thinking so much.”
He stops moving, pulling his hand from between my legs and rinsing it in the shower spray. Then he tips my face up to his and studies me for a long moment. “It’s new for me, too,” he says finally.
“Eli.” My voice breaks, but he knows what I’m trying to say. I let him scoop me up and carry me to the bed. He’s strong
enough that he can hold me with one arm and tug back the covers with the other, laying me on my back and grabbing a condom from the nightstand. He kneels between my spread legs and rolls it on, and I swallow as I see his cock enclosed in his fist.
“You like?” he asks, shooting me a small smile.
“Yes.”
“Good. I like this too.” He traces a finger from my pussy up my stomach, circling both my breasts, up to my jaw. “I like making women come,” he murmurs into my ear, fitting his cock to my entrance and slowly pressing inside. “Give me what I want.”
I bend my knees and lift my legs to make more room for his hips between mine, squeezing my eyes shut as he delivers what I’ve been asking for. There’s a pang of discomfort as my body concedes to his, but it’s gone in an instant, replaced by the relief that there’s finally something there, deep inside, right where I need it. He begins to move, slowly, grinding his hips against mine on every in stroke, making me squirm.
“This okay?”
“Yes.” No. I don’t know what to make of it. I feel like I’m being pulled in two different directions. My body wants its release, wants the orgasm Eli’s so willing to provide, but my brain is telling me this isn’t how we do it, this isn’t going to work. I focus on his ragged breaths in my ear, the rasp of his chest over my breasts, the hand fisted in my hair.
I pull in a deep breath and smell him, taste him, dragging my nails down his back and feeling his muscles flex and release as he moves. All six foot one, two hundred and ten pounds of Eli Grant wants to make me feel good. Right here. Right now. And I want to let him.
“What do you need?” he asks, trailing his tongue along my jaw.
“I need you to fuck me. Don’t hold back.”
“Why?”
“Wha—Why?”
“Yeah. Why?”
“I just do.”
He grunts and pushes up over me so he’s sitting back on his knees for leverage, my legs spread over his. He leans in and presses his hands to the mattress on either side of my waist and watches my face carefully as he shoves in deep and hard.
In Her Defense Page 9