by Megan Mulry
He kept nipping at her neck and ear. “You don’t need to apologize.” He sucked at the tender skin below her ear and then at the base of her neck, then said, “I’ve had an entire year to come to terms with the fact that you are a bigoted, narrow-minded misandrist.”
She pulled out of his arms and turned to glare at him. “Take that back. I am the most open-minded person you’ll ever meet.” Abigail set the bottle of juice down on a nearby end table and folded her arms across her bare chest, feeling—suddenly—a touch defensive and very naked.
Eliot had no compunction about his nudity, strolling over to a large sofa and sitting down as if he were sporting his best Italian suit, one foot set casually across the opposite knee.
“I won’t take back the truth, Abigail.” He looked at the back of his hand vaguely.
At least she was partially concealed from the waist down by one of the side chairs that separated the seating area from the sleeping area. She wanted to go to the closet and throw on one of the plush hotel robes, some flimsy defense, but it seemed like that would be admitting defeat.
“Eliot! It’s me, Abigail! How can you possibly accuse me of being a bigot?”
“You have a heart of gold for every underdog, Abigail. But the rest of us, well, we are simply guilty.”
She huffed a small, dismissive breath. What he said was too absurd to countermand. Wasn’t it?
“That just can’t be true!” She was adamant, but there was the slightest hint of uncertainty. She wanted Eliot to absolve her.
“Abigail, just face it and let’s move on. You were the one—granted, I probably appeared quite accommodating—who assumed I would shag you and call it a day. You were the one, minutes ago, who assumed I craved knowledge of your pristine hymen as some medieval badge of your worthiness or some shit. I have never pigeonholed you. Well, almost never. And you seem perfectly content to lump me together with every outdated Cro-Magnon chauvinist archetype. Admit it. Or don’t.” Then he shrugged, implying that the truth was self-evident and her admission or denial did nothing to alter it.
She bit her lower lip, hard, in a painful attempt to fend off the truth. It was just too ugly, especially after such a glorious, beautiful night. Why would he be so cavalier about what a despicable person she was? After all that? All the soft conversation and lovemaking?
She gave a bark of a laugh as the painful tears started to throb at the back of her eyes, then slid down her cheeks. “I suppose, now that we are properly entwined and you can see clear through me, I’d better give myself over to the fact that I’ve become what is commonly known as a crier.” She swiped at a stray tear before it became verifiable weeping.
Eliot was rubbing the pale gray silk brocade of the seat cushion next to him. At first, it had been an absentminded tactile gesture, but when he caught Abigail’s eye, he sort of patted and stroked the seat cushion in an inviting circular motion. “Come.”
Whether it was the commanding timbre of his voice, the double entendre, or the inviting look in his eye, Abigail looked up through wet lashes and felt the tension and heat of her physical response. She wanted him again. Her arms dropped away from their protective, defiant position across her chest. She wanted Eliot to see all of her as she walked toward him, as she came to him. She crossed the few yards between them, then stood, naked and willing, before him. “Where do you want me?”
He sat staring at her as if she were a runway model he was considering for the shows later in the week. Bloodstock. A possible investment. Her eyes were at once stormy and submissive as he continued to contemplate her, to objectify her. He leaned forward and trailed the edge of one fingernail from the base of her neck to the warm, moist mound between her legs. The light touch left her scorched. Eliot let the pressure linger, taunting her, and watched her eyes flutter in pleasure then return to some attempt of steely resolve.
“Give in, Abigail.” There was nothing diplomatic about the way Eliot spoke to her. He was all business. Taking her in hand. His finger tarried at the needy little bud, then slid farther back. “You want me to do everything to you, don’t you?”
Her body quaked in agreement, but her mind was half a step behind, one foot stuck in a quagmire of rhetoric and theory. What did it mean that she wanted to submit every cell in her body to the loving care of this man? She wanted that. He wanted to give her that. Why was she still looking for reasons for that to be wrong?
His finger began a merciless slide, back and forth, from front to back, toying with her, tempting her, bringing her to a new desperation. Not just physical. It felt moral, ethical, beyond anything she could have anticipated or imagined.
He wanted to take every last bit of her.
And she wanted to give it.
She reached up to her breasts and palmed their weight in her hands, holding her nipples between her thumbs and fingers, mirroring Eliot’s lazy tempo between her legs. She rolled the needy tips in the same back-and-forth motion. Eliot’s breath hitched.
She would give him every ounce of her being.
And then take every piece of him in her turn.
“Yes,” was all she said.
Chapter 15
Abigail felt like that dead gilt Bond girl in Goldfinger. She was splayed listlessly across the huge bed, spread eagle on her stomach, shamelessly nude, one arm hanging off the side, her mess of black hair flung across the pillow and partially concealing her face.
Eliot came out of the bathroom and stopped to take in the erotic tableau. “Jesus, Abigail,” he whispered. He stalked around the bed to get a better look at her slack-jawed expression of bliss, carefully moving aside a lock of her hair to better see her face. She was in her netherworld: a place that Eliot now adored, the half-sleeping-half-waking zone she collapsed into after her most powerful orgasms. Her body fully sated, warm, and flushed. Her lips slightly parted. Her tongue making the occasional, lazy reminiscent foray to the corner of her mouth. Her eyelids were closed, but pulsing as if the visions of pleasure and satisfaction were replaying there behind the tender skin.
He smiled to himself as he contemplated the never-ending vortex of pleasure the two of them could devolve into. When he saw her like this, he wanted her more vehemently than ever. And so it began again, her gentle denouement serving only to ignite him anew.
Eliot breathed a small sigh of displeasure; the cycle had to be broken just now. Eliot had a full day of meetings and preparations for the various Danieli-Fauchard clothing labels that were showing this week. Of course, his brand managers and salespeople and marketing people were in charge of everything, but his presence was expected everywhere, especially with the major buyers from the high-end department stores and the top editors from London, New York, Paris, Milan, and Tokyo.
Marcel might have been a bit of a pup when it came to dealing with Eliot’s demanding fiancée (Eliot stuffed the attendant guilt that spiraled up as he thought of Marisa), but his Swiss assistant was a genius when it came to scheduling. All Helvetican clockwork comparisons aside, Marcel had put together seven days of perfectly orchestrated breakfasts, morning meetings, lunches, afternoon meetings, cocktails, dinners—not to mention allowing for Eliot’s presence at all the requisite fashion shows.
Eliot picked up his phone and checked his schedule for the day, then looked across at Abigail’s tempting body. He had already showered, he might have time for a quick—He shook himself of that foolishness and walked determinedly to the hotel closet with his neat selection of clothes. Since it was still the weekend, he opted for a clean pair of Fauchard blue jeans, a checked shirt from his shirtmaker in Rome, and a cashmere sweater from Ramazzotti. Something about finally closing that deal put his mind back to his first time with Abigail in Paris. Maybe she was right. Maybe it had been too soon then, too raw. The timing between them was off.
But now.
He sat down to check a few emails on his laptop then turned the desk chair so he could enjoy the view of Abigail’s ass, still slightly raised how he had left her. Finally forcing himsel
f to look away, he methodically laced up his favorite worn-in brown calfskin brogues. Eliot set his feet down when he was done, placed his hands on his knees, and inhaled deeply.
He had to go.
He got up and crossed back to stand over Abigail. “Hey, beautiful. Wake up.” He caressed her cheek, then pushed her disobedient hair back out of the way so he could enjoy one last unimpeded view of her gorgeous face.
“Mmmmm.”
“I agree, but I have to go.”
“Mmmm, Eliot…”
“Well, yes, it is.” He was dragging his index finger across her bottom lip, loving the feel of the satin edge, loving the memory of everywhere her mouth had touched him. He groaned and pulled his finger away as she tried to suck it into her mouth. “You are quite demanding.”
She opened her eyes slowly to look at him, her lids heavy with sleep and luxury. “And you are so good at meeting them.” She rolled onto her back, eyes closed again, and stretched out her entire body, arms extended toward the headboard, legs fully tensed and feet in full point.
She was pulled as taut as an archer’s bow.
It was a physical, methodical gesture that she probably did every morning, but in that moment, Eliot had never seen anything more soul-satisfying. He reached his hand out, as if in a dream, and let his palm rest on her flattened stomach.
Her eyes flew open and she laughed at his touch.
“I am going to be so groggy today,” she croaked.
“Unfortunately, I cannot be groggy with you. I have more meetings in the next seven days than I have had in the past month. Our timing, as usual, is not the best.”
His hand stayed on her stomach as he sat down on the edge of the bed. “I’m afraid to get any closer to you or I won’t have the willpower to resist. Give me a kiss and wish me well and get the hotel to move all your things up to this room. Here’s an extra key for you.” He gestured toward the bedside table where the Ritz key card sat next to a glass of water. “What else?”
“You are stupendous. Marvelous. I can’t think of enough words. I adore you.” She leaned up on one arm and flung the other around his neck, pulling him in for a quick kiss. “I shan’t keep you. Go be your powerful, captain-of-industry self and just think of me every now and then.”
“Ha! If only it were now and then, perhaps I’d be moderately productive this week. As it is, I will be so distracted by the thought of you, the vision of you, as you looked when I came out of the bathroom just now—legs akimbo, arms flung out—I will be half-present at best. But present I must be. So kiss me one more time then release me.”
She leaned up again and kissed him gently on the lips, then on his neck, inhaling deeply, to take in the smell of him. “Just to tide me over,” she added, mimicking his words of the night before.
Eliot pulled his hand away from the warm silky skin of her abdomen and stood up reluctantly. “I am literally scheduled for every minute of every day. Do you want to come to any of the shows, or any of the cocktail parties or dinners? Some of them might be fun.”
She tilted her head a bit in consideration. “You know, I kind of like the idea of being your secret love slave, sequestered here in the room, available.” She winked at him. “But if you want me to trail after you on a satin leash, I’m happy to do that too.”
“You are so not what people think you are, by the way. Incorrigible.”
She laughed with seductive, mischievous humor. “It only matters that I’m everything you think I am.”
“Absolutely. All right, then, stay here and be my kept woman for the rest of your stay. I’ll return like the conquering hero every night to claim my favor.” He pulled on a lightweight khaki-colored coat and put his slim wallet, phone, and room key into the pockets. “Be good.” He winked and was gone.
***
Abigail wasn’t sure if she had been asleep for minutes or hours when the phone started ringing. She ignored it. It was still Eliot’s room after all. The last thing she needed was Poor Marisa calling from Africa to fine-tune wedding arrangements. Unfortunately, it didn’t stop ringing. It would pause for a few seconds then resume another lengthy, repetitive chorus of infernal ringing. During one of the brief pauses, she picked up the phone and called down to the front desk.
“Bonjour.”
“Uh, hello. I was just, um, visiting Mr. Cranbrook’s room and the phone seems to be malfunctioning. Is there something wrong?”
The poor Frenchman cleared his throat and began carefully, “Excuse me, but ah, the Miss Sarah James was trying to reach, the guest of Mr. Cranbrook—”
An audible scuffle of the phone being wrenched from the appalled concierge and then Sarah: “What is Eliot’s room number, Abby? Your cell phone is going straight to voice mail. This is ridiculous!”
Abigail tried not to laugh as she told her the number and put the phone back in the cradle. She looked around the room with fresh, practical eyes and made a clumsy, quick attempt to do away with at least the most egregious evidence of the past few hours: a condom wrapper that was peeking out from the edge of the bedskirt, and her silky underthings hanging half-off the edge of a side chair. The rest of her clothes she put in a neat-ish pile in the bathroom, and then she grabbed one of the enormous Turkish bathrobes out of the closet. She went back to the bed to yank the comforter atop the tangled sheets, in a feeble effort to cover the scene of the crime. As the duvet settled, a slight puff of air came to Abigail that was entirely Eliot. She closed her eyes to savor the small evocative moment, then tried to fortify herself when her sister-in-law’s insistent tap-tap-tap sounded through the door.
Abigail must have looked like exactly what she was: a well-used lover.
Sarah stood, stunned, staring at her through the opened doorjamb. “Who are you?”
“Very funny. Are you planning on coming in or simply judging me from the corridor?”
“I haven’t decided,” Sarah folded her arms. “Is it all sex-foggy in there?”
“What did you just say?” Abigail laughed and covered her mouth to hide her embarrassment. “Just don’t go near the bed and I think you’ll be fine.” Abigail opened the door wider and pulled Sarah into the room.
Sarah looked into the bathroom and then around the perimeter of the entire room, as if someone might jump out from behind a sofa or curtain at any moment.
“Sarah, Eliot left ages ago—”
“I know, I saw him at the shows this morning. I wish I had remembered to ask him his room number so I wouldn’t have had to go through all that phone ringing business with the concierge. When I got back to our room and there wasn’t a note or anything, I assumed you were still here… languishing.”
Abigail smiled. “Quite.”
“I’m trying so hard to be, you know, gracious, and not ask for sordid details, but you look so damned happy, I think you have to give me a tiny morsel. Was he fabulous?”
Abigail blushed and felt a range of strange, unexpected emotions. She didn’t want to talk about Eliot, on the one hand, and diminish the importance of what had passed between them. Idle gossip might trivialize her profound experience.
But.
What they had shared, or created, or discovered last night was so incandescent, so intensely life-affirming, that Abigail felt it welling up and exuding out of every pore. She didn’t even need to say anything, her physical being simply shone.
She looked up tentatively at Sarah through sleepy dark lashes.
Sarah took an involuntary breath. “Oh. My. As good as all that?”
Abigail smiled another conspiratorial grin and nodded her silent answer. She felt the skin on her neck prick and realized that she was not just conspiring with Sarah; she wanted to conspire with the whole human race. Her joy felt infinite and peaceful.
Sarah inhaled slowly and tightened her eyes. “Well. That about says it, doesn’t it? Do you want to move your stuff up here or just have the hotel do it?”
“Would you mind? I mean, if I stayed here in Eliot’s room? I know you were into th
e whole girls-week-out and all that.”
“You’re such an idiot. Of course I would rather you stay with Eliot, but I couldn’t very well come out and say that when I invited you, now could I?”
“You’re such a duplicitous scoundrel… what is the female equivalent of a scoundrel? Witch?”
“Never say so! I’m a loving, guiding hand… gently directing you toward your happy fate.”
“That’s one way of describing it. Did you really just bump into Eliot yesterday at the pool?”
“I swear. I never called him about you or said a word. That was all divine intervention.”
With how divine Abigail felt, she half believed her.
“Anyway, what are you up to the rest of the day?” Abigail tried to shake out her hair and shake off the residual glow of Eliot’s touch. Her entire body felt like it was humming everywhere he had kissed her, which was, well, everywhere.
“I suppose I could accompany you,” Sarah said, “and your salacious mind around town. Shall we go see your mother and Jack for tea or dinner? I already have plans to see my grandmother later tomorrow. What are you in the mood for?”
Abigail flushed again.
“Change back into your clothes, you harlot. Come pack up your stuff and have the porter bring it here, then we can go out for a gorgeous late lunch. You have almost slept away one of the most beautiful winter days on record. Let’s get you out into the bright beautiful world so you can shine your light.”
***
A week later, Marisa Plataneau was perturbed. The three-week trip to Tanzania had been a success, obviously. The school project had broken ground, the local officials were working surprisingly well with the aid workers. But she was ready for it to be over. She wasn’t prissy when it came to staying in malaria-infested jungles or in Southeast Asian lean-tos with roaches the size of her laptop, but getting stuck in the Frankfurt airport for a six-hour layover when she was so close to home was simply too much. Everyone had their limits, and the Lufthansa frequent-flyer lounge after six hours was apparently hers.