10. Ten
ten
ELLIOT
I have a feeling the limo ride with Ginger after the party won’t end up as well as the last one we took.
She sits in the rear-facing seat like last time, and I slide in across from her, immediately undoing the top button of my suffocating dress shirt. When the driver closes the door, the air inside the limo reduces to survivability levels only.
We alternate between locked gazes and glances away as the chauffeur makes his way to the driver’s seat. The instant the car starts moving, Ginger lets out a harsh breath and says, “Let’s get this over with.”
“Did you want to go first?” I hedge. She’s giving off a lot of tension with her stay-the-fuck-away-from-me body language and her guarded narrow gaze.
“Talk! Just talk for fuck’s sake. Stop saying we need to and spit it out. What? What do you want?”
I blink, my head backing up from the bite in her tone. Attack Mode isn’t my favorite Ginger setting, but desperate times... “Fine. Why are you pissed?”
“Because you threatened my job tonight, and this is what you said I had to do to keep it, so here I am. I have about a million things to go over for tomorrow—for real—but you said this is what you needed. So?”
“Why you?” I ask, and the question makes her head rear back.
“Why me what?”
“Why am I your job? Whose idea was that?”
“Not mine.” She shifts, her hips squirming on the leather seat as her arms tighten into their fold across her chest. She glances toward the window, shaking a lock of hair off her cheek. “It kind of fell to me.”
“Kind of?”
“You remember Frank?”
I nod, easily recalling one of the producers from Jenna’s season.
“He got a job directing a documentary for Hulu—it was kind of last minute.”
“And you stepped up?”
“More or less,” she mumbles. “So we’re a man down and super busy, if you hadn’t noticed.”
“It wasn’t your idea?”
“None of this was my idea.” Her voice is layered with meaning.
Intrigued, I wait for her to say more.
She doesn’t, and silence, thick with words unspoken, settles between us.
I’m glad I told the limo driver to take the long way home. “Are you angry with me?”
She breathes in sharply, her shoulders rising several inches. “Of course not.”
Her stiff posture tells another story. I offer a gentle reminder. “I emailed you...”
She stares at me, her throat moving with a swallow. “Yeah.”
“I wanted to see you again,” I say.
“I read the emails.”
“Could’ve fooled me.”
“The network was already talking to you,” she says like that’s all that matters.
“I hadn’t committed to anything.”
Her face remains blank. “Well, you have now. I’m not sure why we’re even discussing it. Nothing today changes by dredging up the past.”
“So I’m supposed to do what you’re doing? Pretend it never happened and ignore...”
I need to be careful. Admitting I still want her is likely not the best course of action. And yet—isn’t that why I demanded this meeting? To let her know what’s holding me back? The only way I can think to break free of the spell she casts on me is to make my reservations known and have her confirm that my infatuation is one-sided. It could be my only chance to finally resolve this one unresolved moment of my past.
“Ignore what?”
“That night,” I begin, checking for any sign I should stop or keep talking.
She isn’t moving at all, though—not blinking, not breathing...
“You surprised me,” I admit.
A corner of her mouth twitches, like the idea makes her want to smile.
I would smile, too, if the memory didn’t overwhelm me so much—if I could shake the sudden image of her delicate wrists bound together in black lace, her exposed nipples straining for my mouth as I dropped to my knees before her. The way she said yes, giving me permission to take her any way I dreamed of doing it. Literally anything , she’d said, like nothing I wanted was too much or off-limits.
Remembering heats my blood, my body responding to the acute pleasure of the memory, to the echo of the sounds she made...hot and desperate.
My cock pulses to life, and I ache to stroke it the way I did that night. She’d been mesmerized—watching me. I spread my legs wider, hoping to diffuse some of the unbearable tension.
“It was one night,” she says.
“One very long night...”
She runs a finger along the inner edge of her blouse’s collar, grazing the pale skin of her throat. “That’s all it was meant to be. I didn’t expect things to get so...”
“What?”
“I didn’t expect you to be so...”
“What was I?” My cock throbs, demanding something . It hurts not to touch it.
“Weird,” she says shortly, and the word is like the lash of a whip. It turns me on more, and it makes me want to grovel at her feet. Apologize for confusing her, turning her off, promise I can do it better, different, whatever she wants.
“So it’s not something you think about?” I ask as I remember some of the things I said to her. I’m gonna make you miss me, Ginger. When I’m gone and you touch yourself, I’m gonna be the guy in your head. The hands on these tits. The cock in your mouth.
Too much, I was too much, and it’s never gotten me what I want—a partner. Someone who gets me. Someone who wants me as wildly as I want. Because I want . Too much.
“I...” The syllable comes out more breath than sound. Her dark gaze, like my own will is pulling it there, lands on my crotch. Eyes widening at my evident arousal, she doesn’t finish her sentence.
The pressing demand inside me won’t tolerate being ignored. My hand moves to my inner thigh where my rigid dick pulses. I give it a firm squeeze, sighing at my own touch. A mistake maybe, but a relief for sure.
“Elliot...” The hush of her voice isn’t a rebuke. It sounds like a purr.
I can’t stop myself. “I think about it. You. That night.” My cock twitches beneath my hand, needing more—a firmer grip.
“Are you thinking about it now ?” Her cheeks flush pink as she stares at my hand.
“I think about it all the time.” I force my hand off my cock, dropping my head back and shutting my eyes.
“That’s what you wanted to talk about? This is how you wanna do it?”
“I know... This isn’t professional .” But Ginger has invaded every moment of my return to LA. I wish being close to her didn’t overwhelm me so much, that it were easier...
“Is having me here right now helping you?”
“Sort of. A little. Not enough.”
“And if I was Kat sitting across from you—would you still be...”
The soft moan that ends her sentence is a window opening. A chance.