by Ivy Hunt
But even my obscure position doesn’t deter my well-meaning parents. It’s hard not to notice that each of the single men who speaks with Mom and Dad eventually makes his way over to me for a token hello. I am the pit stop on the way to the men’s room. Thanks boys. Real smooth.
Initially, I fend them off. But when the waiters serving hors d’oeuvres never seem to be in my vicinity—likely on orders of Hannah—I start dispatching my erstwhile suitors to procure appetizers for me and Aunt Cynthia while I keep myself immobile—all the better to maintain the farce of my still-injured foot, re-splinted and on full display.
I play with the place card in front of me while I wait for the next delivery—I’m hoping for the shrimp skewers. The black and white script says ‘Ella Mary Dixon’. Couldn’t even get my name right. Off with the wedding planner’s head.
I watch men congratulate Hank and women air-kiss Hannah. The dress I spent weeks of my life on is a definite standout, exactly like my sister.
I’m on my fifth Old Fashioned and munching on a mini crab cake when I hear it, “Connor! I’m so glad you came!” Hannah’s voice echoes in the room.
I whip around. And there he is. Mr. Hall.
Holy Fucci. In a tuxedo. His is the wardrobe that just keeps on giving.
My brain screeches ‘Foul!’ What is he doing here? I ‘lost’ his invitation weeks ago.
Still, my heart clenches, and a traitorous delight begins to fizz in my belly. He’s here. My heart shushes my head, and for once, it listens, allowing me to bask in the happiness as I eye him greedily, taking in his blue eyes, his strong jawline, his blond hair, perfectly in place.
I wait for him to search me out, head my way, but he follows Hannah to her group of friends. She puts her hand possessively on his chest as she introduces her prize catch.
Connor smiles at one of the other women and extends his hand. Instead of merely shaking it, she covers it with her other one. What a burbitch. I want to pry her fingers apart and free him from her clutches, tell her he’s mine. But part of me also registers that he’s making no effort to disengage himself. She’s in a silver, Swarovski-encrusted Givenchy gown from this season’s runway show. I want to fault her for her good taste, but I can’t.
How foolish I am. Ridiculous, really. A flush of embarrassment creeps up my neck. Many of the guests know about my so-called relationship with Connor thanks to my parents. I’ve never felt more out of my skin than I do right now, in this awful dress in this space where I’ve regressed to the worst version of myself. Where everyone in this room has witnessed me at my most pathetic. I want to hide.
Of course, that’s the moment Connor’s gaze finally finds mine. Our eyes lock. But he doesn’t smile, reserving all his charm for the sycophants around him.
Maybe I should go first? I order my lips to stretch, not entirely sure how well my motor functions obey.
Connor doesn’t grin back. Instead, he slips his hands into his pockets and continues to eye me. Why do guys seem so much sexier in that pose? Is it because it looks like they are fondling themselves on the sly? Ick. Still, there’s just something about that hands-in-pocket thing. Further examination is required. But not right now, with my brain cells flooded in booze.
A second to breathe arrives when Hank pulls Connor over to a group of buddies. He shakes hands and makes small talk with the men who crowd around him and the women busy making eyes at him. He handles the attention like the pro he is, laughing, smiling, taking selfies with his fans.
I force myself to look away and grab the arm of a visiting boy. “Hey, can you get me another drink?” There’s a full glass in front of me, but I’m all about planning for the future.
Aunt Cynthia says something. I move my jaw in response, praying that her skills stop at reading lips because I’m probably making horse-shaped movements with my mouth.
I sneak another glance at Connor. His eyes are on me again, even though he’s speaking with yet another woman—this time a statuesque redhead. A Jessica Rabbit. Seriously, who can compete with this bunch? When the woman notices his attention isn’t fully on her, she twists to see who he’s looking at. She gives me an assessing glare, but obviously doesn’t think much of the competition (there is none) because she swivels back to Connor, and maneuvers so he has to turn his back on me or appear rude.
Jealousy spears through me, and I shake my head in an attempt to dislodge the green goblin. I try to focus on the half-eaten crab cake in front of me. I pop it into my mouth and choke it down. The texture resembles pre-chewed gummy bears instead of flaky freshness.
The music changes and Hannah and Hank move to the dance floor accompanied by their entourage. Connor follows at the urging of the woman he’s with. I blink. He can move. Really, why does it surprise me that he knows how to dance? We’ve already established that he is perfect. Humiliation and misery mingle in my belly when he winks at her, now giving her his full attention. He’s so attractive, it makes my eyeballs hurt.
Ugly desperation fills me. There’s no need to witness more. My parents won’t notice if I go missing. Much. I knock back my glass in one swig, then wipe my mouth with the back of my hand—classy is my middle name.
“Excuse me,” I say, pushing up from the table. My gait is unsteady from the booze and I teeter in my heels, as if I really do need the crutches. I take a step back to steady myself, right as one of Hank’s uncles knocks into me. Green carpet rushes up to greet me just as an arm loops around my waist from behind.
“Falling at my feet again, Ms. Fly?” a husky voice whispers against my ear as I’m pulled against a solid chest. My skin tingles as I’m slowly turned until I’m staring into familiar blue eyes.
All of a sudden, I don’t recall quite why I’m so upset. Still, Connor’s confident grin makes me frown, even as I loop my arms around his neck to steady myself. I want to wipe that smug expression off his face, if only on principle. I draw from the last reserves of my courage and mix it in with a booze-based confidence I don’t feel. “No. You just have a hero complex. You gotta work on that. Very unattractive.” But I contradict my words by burying my face against his chest and they come out mumbled instead.
His laugh is soft, the vibrations echo against my cheek, and his arms tighten around me. “I’ll do that.”
Right this moment, I cannot find it in me to care that my escape plan has been foiled. I look up as he dips his head down, and his mouth covers mine. His kiss makes me breathless, but at the same time, it feels like the first bit of air I’ve been able to take in days.
I’m enveloped in his scent as I kiss him back, starved for him. Desperate. Devouring. I pretend we’re alone and not the center of the attention that I know we’ve become.
Connor releases me, only long enough to tow me to the dance floor, then tucks me against him again. His hands rest possessively on the small of my back, right above my butt. Almost as if cued, the band switches from the upbeat number they were playing to a slower tune.
I rotate my head just enough to see Hannah glaring us down from her position in Hank’s arms. I smirk and face Connor once more. I can’t say I hate the envious looks sent my way. I’m perfectly happy to admit I’m a shallow, shallow human being.
And then, beat by beat, the rest of the room disappears as Connor and I sway in each other’s arms. I shift, pressing closer. When he hardens against my belly, I feel myself clench.
My eyes find his. “Got a room?” I whisper.
I love the little grin that springs to his lips. He leads me, unresisting, out of the ballroom. We take the elevators up to the top floor and I follow him down the long hallway to one of the suites.
“Come into my lair, said the spider to the fly,” Connor mocks lightly as he holds the door open for me. I walk in, perfectly content to be caught in his web.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
CONNOR
I hadn’t planned to use the comp room Hannah and Hank arranged for me. Hell, I hadn’t planned anything at all. The only thing I’d been expecting was t
o be reamed out the moment Ella saw me at her sister’s party. In fact, I was ready for it.
So when I walked in, I was shocked to find Ella in a corner, far away from the wedding group. I always knew that she wasn’t a big fan of the people she grew up with, but it’s like she was a whole different person. It’s the quietest I’ve ever seen her. Demure, put together.
It’s strange to see her so…still. As if she’s folded in on herself.
As I struggle to make sense of what I’m witnessing, and to plot my approach, Hannah grabs hold of my arm. She has me flitting about like a prize monkey. But I can’t keep my eyes off Ella. It’s been less than a week since I last saw her, but it feels like forever.
My lips thin when a guy brings her a drink. She takes it, but then waves him away. So, not her date. I breathe easier and scan the rest of her table. There doesn’t seem to be anyone under the age of fifty keeping her company. Her crutch is propped on the chair to her side. I’m worried. Did she manage to hurt herself again?
But then, her foot bounces. Her sprained foot. The little faker. My tension eases and I have to hide a grin.
I pretend interest in the people milling around me—it’s second nature at this point—and use the time to plan my attack.
And then she is falling, literally at my feet. And I don’t give a damn about anything else, just relieved to have her close to me again. I don’t care how pissed she is at my presence.
Now that I have her in my suite, all vestiges of my urbane disguise disappear. I spin her to face me and haul her into my arms. Our lips collide, almost violently, and our teeth clash.
She clings to me, tugging me even closer, her movements just as needy as mine. Our kisses are ravenous, and a strangled sound leaves me. Her hands tunnel through my hair, and I growl. She moans in response, and the sound sends another rush of arousal through me. I’m shaking—uncoordinated, dying for her. I fuck her mouth with my tongue. It’s desperate and dirty and I can’t get enough.
I crush her against me. Even a single inch between us is too much. She clamps a leg around my thigh, pressing her center against me, grinding against the hard muscle. Her movements are jerky and insistent. I grunt, and my hands grab her ass, urging her to buck against me, take what she wants.
I cannot get enough of her taste, her smell, her feel. My dick throbs almost painfully against her stomach, my shoulders shaking with need. My heart pounds. Each beat is the same—Ella, Ella, Ella.
I want her so bad, my balls hurt. My cock is eager, I thrust against her belly and her hands tighten in my hair. But I need her to know how I feel before this goes any further. Gritting my teeth, I fight for some restraint. She utters a little whimper when I draw back, and nips at my lower lip.
Booze, lust, and annoyance at my stopping sparkle in her jade green eyes, making me grin. She’s normally not this bold, but I’m enjoying this more reckless version of her. I duck again, because I can’t help it and my lips graze her temple, and slowly skim down the side of her face and along her jaw.
Ella twists her head so our mouths meet again. But this time our kiss is soft, tender. I coax her lips open. Everything I want to say is in this kiss. My lips brush hers once, twice, then I lift my head, ready to confess it all aloud.
I draw in a breath, suddenly nervous. I’m about to tell someone a truth I never believe even existed.
But Ella uses the brief pause to spin around and present me with her back. “Off damned dress, off!” she mutters. Lady Macbeth, she is not.
I chuckle, and obediently tug the zipper down. But then I’m not laughing anymore. “What the hell?”
The metal has cut into her skin, and there’s a long angry line down her spine. Ella swivels her head to see what I’m looking at. “Oh, that. It’s fine. Didn’t get to make the alterations. Ran out of time.”
I push the sides of the stiff material apart enough so that it folds down over her waist. The top edge of the strapless bodice has also left lighter indentations in her skin across her shoulder blades. I lean over and look down her front. My jaw tightens—they continue across her front, above her bare breasts.
She whimpers when I set my lips to the marks on her back. “Hurt?” I ask.
“A little. Doesn’t matter.”
But I don’t want to be the one who hurts Ella. Ever.
I press my mouth against each vertebrae, soothing her. My hands skim down the sides of her breasts. I get on my knees behind her, and continue on my path, kiss by kiss, until my lips meet the bottom of her spine. The damnable gown is still caught low on her hips.
Ella wiggles and the dress flops to the ground. My breath catches in my throat. She’s in a tiny white thong, sparkly gold stilettos, and nothing else.
I trace the top edge of the lace with my fingers then lightly kiss the cheek of each buttock, caressing the soft flesh. My heart lightens at her small giggle.
Then I stand to my full height and draw her back against me. My arms wrap around her, fingers interlocking at her middle. My thumbs rub small circles into her soft skin. Ella hums in pleasure and leans back against my shoulder and lets out a deep sigh. We stand like that, swaying together ever so slightly. My heartbeat slows.
Another deep exhale, and she relaxes against me. I dip my head to her shoulder and press a kiss there. “Hey, come on. Let’s get you to bed.” I whisper against her ear.
She gives a soft, agreeable hum. I pick her up and carry her to the bed, settling her in amidst the cool sheets, taking a moment to study her. She unfurls in a languid stretch then curls to one side, pillowing a cheek under her hands. I drape the duvet over her.
My clothes come off, I don’t care where they fall. I crawl in behind her, and tuck her against me.
I lie there, long after she’s settled, playing with her hair, stroking it gently down her back. She releases a small snore and a grin touches my lips. Here I was, all set to declare myself and she’s out.
But there’s always tomorrow. I fall asleep with a smile on my face.
Chapter Thirty
ELLA
Soft lips brush the shell of my ear. I am spooned against a hard chest and warm skin blankets my spine. I wriggle back, wanting to get even closer.
“Good morning," a husky voice murmurs.
Connor.
My lids snap open. The sleepy haze surrounding me vanishes and nausea swamps my insides. The last twelve hours flash before my eyes in slow motion—showing up at Hannah’s party, wearing that awful, awful dress, hiding in a corner, and drinking and drinking myself into a dimwit. Connor appearing at the party, and literally sweeping me off my feet. Prince Charming, ever the rescuer.
And me? Ever the loser. Embarrassment floods me at the way I practically devoured him on the dance floor.
My head rests on Connor’s shoulder, and his fingers skim along my inner arm. He is entirely oblivious that it is torture to stay still while they play across my skin.
One, two, buckle my shoe. Three, four, I was a whore. Five, six, there’s no quick fix…
He nuzzles against me, and a hard, familiar bulge rocks against my butt. Breath lodges in my ribs. I can’t. Not now.
A large palm slides up the side of my hip. I can’t take anymore, and cover his hand with mine, stopping him.
Connor stills. “You okay?”
“Umm hmm.”
A second passes. “Your head hurt?”
“Little bit,” I choke out.
He frees his hand and brings it up to stroke my shoulder. There’s nothing sexual about his touch now, it’s purely soothing. My lower lip trembles and I have to clamp it between my teeth before I lose it. It’s no use, tears begin to trickle down my cheeks. I ball my fists tight to keep from sobbing out loud, but a whimper still escapes me.
Connor’s hand pauses, he knows something is wrong. “Hey.”
I wrench away and sit up, keeping my back to him. “Be back in a few.” My voice is garbled.
“Ella,” he says.
At the edge of the bed, I realize all
I have on is my thong. Fresh tears fill my eyes as I scan the room. The heinous dress is on the ground, halfway between me and the door. Shielding my breasts with a hand, I stagger over to retrieve it, then scurry, head bowed, to the bathroom, feeling Connor’s gaze linger on me the entire way.
I lock the door behind me and lean against the wood before sinking down to the floor. I draw my knees up to my chest and bury my head in my hands.
Who was that silly, shameless woman from last night?
It wasn’t me.
It won’t be me.
Who knows how long I sit there, but at some point, I manage to drag myself to the sink. I splash water on my face, trying to summon some sense of humanity. My reflection shows a wan, pale face staring back at me, complete with bloodshot eyes and puffy lips. Brown, wavy hair is a mass of knots. My appearance is completely at odds with the luxurious bathroom with its gleaming white fixtures and fluffy towels—not to mention the gazillion thread count sheets I passed out on.
I squeeze back into the awful, awful dress, but leave the zipper undone. There’s no more pretending I’m Cinderella. Can’t force things to fit.
Outside, Connor is in last night’s suit pants and shirt, not a single wrinkle in his clothes. He’s in the process of buckling his belt in front of the full-length mirror across from me.
He looks up and our eyes clash, those blue orbs searing my skin. Just like that first night. We shouldn’t have ended up there. We shouldn’t have ended up here.
Connor spins to me, concern flickering in his gaze. “Ella. Baby.”
He takes a step in my direction, but I hold my hands up to stop him from coming closer. “We need to talk.”
“Okay,” he says slowly. “I was hoping to speak with you as well.”
“So last night…” Words stick in my windpipe.