by Ember Cole
“Look, Bekka,” I start. “You are insanely fucking hot, and I want you so much I could chew off my own hand.”
“Oh.” She blinks at me, then bites her lip. “That’s—okay, that’s actually one of the sweetest things I’ve heard all month.”
“In that case, you should get out more.”
She winces and shakes her head. “I am out there. I’m on all the dating apps.”
“Not quite what I meant.”
She fiddles with the seam of my jeans near my knee, which is hardly a sexual touch, but my body registers it the same way it would a hand job. I suppress the urge to reach for her again. That won’t help with whatever’s bothering her. She shifts positions, and there’s that flowery scent again. Not roses or lilacs, which pretty much taps out my knowledge of flowers. It’s sweet, though, a little like Bekka.
She’d kill me if I said that out loud. I get the sense she’s used to being tough. That she’d rather be compared to Wonder Woman or a shark. Or Wonder Woman riding a shark.
Her eyes meet mine again, and it’s all I can do not to take her in my arms. “Look, we’re not going anywhere for a little while.” I gesture to the elevator control panel, which is currently flashing like a broken disco ball. “Since we’re stuck here for a bit, why don’t you tell me what’s on your mind?”
“I’m not opening that can of worms.”
“Why not? I’m a good listener. No judgment, I promise.”
She seems to hesitate. She bites the corner of her lip in a way that’s got me seriously rethinking my offer to talk instead of fuck.
But then she decides something. “I guess I am a little shaky,” she admits. “Low blood sugar or something.” She gives a self-deprecating little laugh, and I watch as she lowers her guard and looks at me sideways through her lashes. “It hasn’t been the best day.”
I reach out and grab the granola bar off the floor, pleased to discover it’s still in one piece. Her eyes fill with gratitude as I hand it to her. “Eat this,” I offer. “It’ll help with the blood sugar thing at least.”
“Thanks.” Her tone has turned almost shy, and I don’t know what’s responsible for the shift. The fact that she came her brains out, or the fact that we’re talking instead of fucking.
I’m not sure, but I’m enjoying the shift. Not that I wasn’t digging the other version of Bekka, but the contrast is intoxicating. This rapid-fire shift from a pissed-off ball of redheaded fury to a sweet, soft-spoken version of Bekka. I really like both.
She unwraps the granola bar and takes a bite. Then she looks at me again and offers a funny little smile. “I’m not crazy, I promise.”
“I never thought you were,” I assure her.
“Liar.”
“‘Crazy’ isn’t the word.” I fish around for a better one. “Spirited,” I try, hoping that doesn’t make her sound like a horse. “Feisty. Sort of a pissed-off Tinker Bell on the brink of robbing a bank.”
That gets a laugh out of her. A real one this time. She takes another bite of the granola bar and chews for a bit. When she sighs, I know I’ve just heard the sound of her guard slipping down.
“I’ve had the day from hell,” she says. “So I really appreciate the orgasm.”
“My pleasure.”
Seriously, my pleasure.
She smiles and unwraps another section of granola bar. “I’m not usually so—”
I wait for her to spit out one of the adjectives she thinks I want to hear.
Easy.
Slutty.
Forward.
None of those are what I actually want to hear, so I’m surprised by the words she offers.
“Impulsive,” she says. “Not usually this impulsive.”
“Really?”
She shrugs. “I’m not psycho, but I’m also not known for my cool, calm demeanor. That’s what Kymber’s for.”
“Ah, Kymber.” I try not to think about what my father is presently doing to Bekka’s best friend. It probably involves restraints of some kind, but I’d rather not dwell. “You two are close?”
“Yeah. Best friends. Roommates. We’ve known each other forever.”
“And you’re not like her?”
“Nope. Not really.” She laughs again. “I’m definitely not the submissive type.”
I’m not surprised the conversation has turned sexy again. Bekka oozes sexuality. It radiates from her like a cloud of perfume, but there’s more to her than that.
We lapse into a comfortable silence. Well, mentally comfortable, at least. As much as I love everything that’s happened in this elevator, including simply hanging out on the floor next to her, sitting this much is making me jittery. I catch myself drumming my fingers against my knee. Bekka’s gaze strays to my hand and lingers there, and I watch as she licks her lips.
I order myself to stop drumming, but her eyes stay locked on my hands.
“So tell me about this boyfriend,” I say. “I’m assuming it’s a boyfriend you were yelling about in here?”
She snorts and meets my eyes again. “Barely. I mean, I thought that’s where we were headed.”
“He had other ideas?”
“Yeah,” she mutters. “So did his fiancée.”
“Ouch.” Okay, now I want to punch the guy. The urge to hop out of the elevator and go find him is strong. “What an asshole.”
“Yeah.” She sighs. “For the record, I had no idea he was engaged. I’m not surprised, though.”
“Why’s that?”
“It’s totally my luck.” She shrugs. “I swear, every time I meet a guy I think is pretty great, it turns out he’s kind of an ass weasel. Every. Fucking. Time.” She takes a ferocious bite of the granola bar and chews like she’s bitten off someone’s head.
“Uh, thanks?”
She replays her words in her head and laughs. “Not you,” she says. “You don’t seem like an ass weasel. Though I guess you could still turn out to be one.”
“I’ll try not to.” I pick up a stray bit of granola that’s fallen to the floor and roll it around between my fingers. It’s like a fidget spinner made of sticky oats. I wonder if she’d care if I did a few push-ups.
“Where have you been meeting all these ass weasels?”
She looks down at the granola bar and peels the wrapper down a little farther. “Tinder, mostly.”
“You’re looking for relationships on Tinder?” My voice comes out sounding incredulous, but I can’t help it. Tinder? Seriously? “Isn’t that a hookup app?”
She looks up again and rolls her eyes. “You said you weren’t judging.”
“I’m not. Just pointing out that looking for relationships on Tinder is like shopping for organic arugula at a 7-Eleven.”
Her expression turns haughty. “Who says I’m looking for a relationship?”
She’s got me there. But while it’s true she never said it, there’s something in her eyes that says I hit the mark. Not that she’d admit it, especially not to a stranger.
But there’s more to Bekka Zoler than emotionless hookups. Hell, I’ve seen more emotion from her in the last twenty minutes than I’ve seen in people I’ve known for years.
I get to my feet, too jumpy to sit anymore. Bekka starts to stand, too, but I wave her off. “Just chill,” I tell her. “You seem like you need to relax.”
The grin she gives me is equal parts grateful and naughty. “After that orgasm, I’m not sure my legs work anyway.”
She polishes off the last of the granola bar and reaches for her purse. Stuffing the wrapper inside, she pulls out one of those tiny little mandarin oranges. As she starts to peel it, I admire the delicateness of her fingers. There’s a soft sprinkle of freckles across each forearm like someone dusted her with cocoa powder, and my mouth starts to water.
I move toward the control panel and wonder how long we have until the repair guys get here. I’m guessing twenty minutes at least, but I wish it were longer.
“Want to know what CJ said when I went over to his place
and demanded to know about the fiancée?”
I turn back to look at her, impressed she had the balls to confront the ass weasel in person. “Did he try to deny it?”
She shakes her head. “No.” Her throat moves as she swallows. “He said, ‘C’mon, Beks’—I hate when anyone but Kymber calls me Beks, by the way.”
“Noted. You’ve gotta earn the Beks.”
She laughs, but it doesn’t reach her eyes. Her attention is fixed on peeling the orange, but I can tell her mind is somewhere else.
“He said, ‘C’mon, Beks.’” Her voice wavers there, and I move beyond wanting punch this CJ guy and consider whether my army buddies could make him disappear. “He said, ‘It’s not like you’re the kind of girl who’s expecting to go home and meet the parents. We were just having fun.’”
“Ugh.”
She stops peeling for a second and stares at the bright orange shreds on her thigh. “The thing is, I didn’t want to meet his parents,” she says slowly. “I mean, please. We’d only been dating a couple weeks.”
I fiddle with the button for the eighth floor, which has always been a little sticky. The button. Not the floor. But I know that’s not the problem, so I keep my eyes on Bekka to make sure she knows I’m listening. “Doesn’t mean you weren’t invested.”
She sighs and glances up, and there’s a tenderness in those green eyes that takes my breath away. “It’s the principle of it, you know? The idea that he’s ashamed of me or whatever. Like there are girls you fuck and girls you want to be seen with in public, and apparently I’m not—I’m not—”
She shakes her head and shoves a piece of mandarin in her mouth, chewing like she wants to get the taste of those words off her tongue. The unspoken ones, that is. I don’t blame her.
“Babe.” The way-too-familiar endearment slips out before I can wonder if she’ll take it as an insult. But she holds my gaze, and I can tell she’s not offended. “Any guy would gladly break out his own teeth with a claw hammer for the chance to be seen in public with you. Trust me, you’re smokin’.”
She smiles but doesn’t look convinced. “So why do so many guys I date turn out to be such losers?”
“Uh, maybe because you’re looking in the wrong places?”
She shrugs and plucks a tissue from her purse, then wads the orange peel into it before slipping another mandarin slice in her mouth. “I guess I can’t argue with that.”
I pull out the Leatherman tool on my key chain and unscrew the control panel, needing to tear myself from the vulnerability in her eyes. “And because they’re spineless, dickless pieces of shit who don’t deserve you?”
I pop the cover off the control panel and inspect the wiring. It looks fine to me, but I’m not an electrician. I should probably stop messing with things—I did promise my dad, after all—but maybe electrocuting myself will help jolt me out of this sex-addled state. I owe Bekka the courtesy of listening instead of lusting.
Her laugh is soft behind me. “Thanks. They are kind of assholes.”
I move the wiring aside to check the fuses, only half focused on what I’m doing. “The way I see it, you’re the whole package.”
“You’ve known me thirty minutes.”
“And in that time, I’ve discovered you’re funny, clever, and hot as sin.”
I’m not looking at her, but I hear the smile in her response. “That’s a lot to notice in thirty minutes.”
“It’s been quite the thirty minutes.”
She giggles. “Good point.”
I tug at a red wire, wishing I had my needle-nose pliers. “My point is, you’re the real deal. And if that jackwad didn’t see it, that’s his loss.”
She’s quiet a moment behind me. I don’t dare turn around. Right now, my libido couldn’t handle the sight of her slipping another orange slice between those perfect lips. “Thanks,” she says at last. “You’re sweet to say that.”
“It’s the fucking truth. And I’m not sweet. Ask any of my exes—they’ll tell you I’m kind of an asshole.”
“I find that hard to believe.”
I shrug and tug at a green wire, following it back into the panel. “Maybe not asshole. Difficult. Flighty. Whatever. What I’m saying is that I’m not just blowing smoke up your skirt.”
“Thank you.”
The green wire is definitely loose, so I focus on reattaching it where it belongs. Maybe I can get this piece of shit moving again, though why would I want to? Being in here alone with Bekka is the highlight of my week so far.
“Look, you can’t put too much stock in the opinion of a guy who’d dick around on his fiancée,” I say. “You’re way too good for that.”
I realize she’s fallen quiet behind me, so I turn to look at her. She’s watching me with undisguised admiration, and something else. Heat?
“Where have guys like you been my whole life?”
I laugh. “On the fifth floor. You should stop by sometime.”
“Hmm.” Those green eyes flash. “Maybe I will.”
The grin she shoots me goes straight to my dick, and I drop my hands to my sides. Heat crackles between us, and I’m struck by the urge to take her in my arms again. To drop onto the floor beside her and kiss her until neither of us can see straight.
“Can I ask you something?” My voice is huskier than normal, and I wonder if she notices.
“Anything.”
“It’s kind of personal.”
She laughs and licks her lips. “Considering where your mouth was ten minutes ago, I think we’ve already crossed that line.”
God.
Just the thought of having my face between her thighs, my tongue on that sweet little clit, has me wanting to do it all over again. My brain starts buzzing, and I’ve totally forgotten what I meant to ask her. I’ve forgotten everything but how fucking good it felt to have Bekka Zoler come all over my face.
Get a grip.
There’s no denying the sexual energy crackling around us right now, but for some reason I’m not ready to act on it. I want more. I want to know this girl, know more than the color of her panties or the soft mewling sound she makes right before she comes.
Is she thinking the same way, or does she just want to fuck?
“What did you want to ask me?” She uncrosses her legs, then crosses them again, folding the right one over the left and leaving me staring at her bare thighs like I’ve never seen skin before.
“I—uh—totally forgot.”
She smiles, and I wonder if she knows that she’s getting to me. That every movement she makes is driving me to distraction. That I’ve never felt such an overpowering urge to talk and fuck and talk and fuck and do both of those things all night long until we drop from exhaustion.
Bekka’s watching me like she hears all these crazy thoughts spinning around in my head, or maybe she’s just staring at my dick. It throbs to attention as she licks her lips.
“So, Adam,” she says slowly, lifting her eyes to mine. “Tell me about yourself.”
5
BEKKA
Tell me about yourself.
My own lame words rattle around in my brain for a second, reminding me what a dumbass I am. We’re trapped in an elevator, not sitting in some swanky Italian restaurant with daisies on the table as we make awkward first-date conversation.
He puts the cover back on the elevator controls and lowers himself to the floor beside me. The look he gives me makes me glad I’m already sitting. I’m that weak-kneed. His shoulder bumps mine companionably, and I’m reminded of the fact that my thighs were resting on those same shoulders just minutes ago.
Heat creeps into my cheeks, and I hope he doesn’t notice.
He hesitates, then lifts a hand and lays it on my bare thigh. He rests it there a moment before his palm trails up a few inches, then down again, then back up with aching slowness. It’s a small gesture, but something about it screams “intimacy,” maybe more than me screaming his name as he gave me the most delicious orgasm ever.
&n
bsp; “What do you want to know?” he asks.
“What do you do for work?” I ask. “Or are you in school like Kymber and me?”
He laughs at that and rakes his free hand through his hair. “Nah, I’m not a college student. Not now, anyway.”
“You were once?”
“Only for a semester right out of high school. It was way too soon.”
“Eighteen is pretty young to decide what you want to do for the rest of your life.”
“True.” He drops his hand from his hair and starts fiddling with the strap on my purse. I wonder if he knows he’s doing it. “I was way too restless to sit in a classroom all day.”
“Are you less restless now?”
He shrugs and uses one finger to trace lazy circles around my kneecap. “Maybe. I’ve thought about going back. Maybe studying architecture or engineering or something.”
“Those are both great careers.”
“Yeah. I’ve got some time to figure it out, though. They give you ten years to use the GI Bill benefits.”
“You were in the military?” I don’t know why this surprises me. “I mean, I knew your dad was some big-shot military guy, but you don’t seem the type.”
“I’m not.” He looks at me, a flicker of surprise in those deep brown eyes. “I did my four years of active duty, kept my head down, then got out. It wasn’t for me.”
“Too rigid?”
“Something like that.” He looks thoughtful, and I’m hyperconscious of the heat from his bare hand on my thigh. “I liked the focus it gave me, but there wasn’t much room for creativity.”
“Architecture or engineering,” I repeat, remembering what he said earlier. “That’s what you want to do when you grow up?”
Grow up? Way to sound like a third grader at show-and-tell. He must think I’m an idiot.
But Adam just smiles. “I like building and fixing stuff.” He shoots a wry grin at the control panel. “Elevators not included. I like woodworking. You know that desk in the lobby?”
“That cool rustic-looking one with the copper pipe legs?” I love that desk. Sometimes I do my homework there when Kymber and Daniel are at our place instead of his. If no one’s looking, I’ll sit there imagining myself as the CEO of a major international company. “It’s a great desk.”