Chapter 8
eight
ELAINA
The drive from JFK to the Upper West Side gives me plenty of time to overthink everything.
Especially how much I enjoyed the flight with Hunter.
Damn him for being so good at calming my nerves. At making me laugh. At chess, of all things. And yes, I am still better at chess than he is—what can I say; it’s my weird natural talent—but he’s no slouch.
And he didn’t seem to mind getting stomped by a café owner without a college education, either.
In fact, he seemed almost… proud of me.
I wouldn’t have expected Hunter to be the kind of man who knows when to check his ego. Or the kind to be so generous with his compliments or his praise or his “bonus office.” He really seems to believe in me, which is really, really attractive.
If a girl didn’t know better, she could start to see long-term potential here.
But I do know better. Which is why I have to stay focused on the big picture—now, more than ever. I need to remember that this is a place I’m dropping anchor for a short time, not a safe harbor, and keep my options open and my heart under lock and key.
“Hungry?” Hunter asks as we turn onto Central Park West. “I could have the driver stop at the gourmet deli on the corner before we get to my building. Or we could order delivery once we get to my place if you don’t mind waiting for dinner.”
“I’m fine with waiting, if you are,” I say. “Especially if you have Thai food places that deliver around here. I’ve only had Thai food once, but if I remember correctly, it was the most delicious thing ever.”
“Only once?” His brows drift higher on his forehead.
I nod. “Yep. Not a lot of culinary diversity in Sea Breeze and running a business like mine doesn’t leave a girl a lot of time to drive to Portland for curry.”
“Sounds like we need to start making up for lost time,” he says. “We have several options for Thai food in the neighborhood, including my personal favorite, The Jealous Papaya. Their green curry and coconut chicken soup are the best in the city.”
“Yum. I’ll have both and fried spring rolls, please.” I grin. “But I do have one follow-up question. Why is the papaya jealous?”
He gives a slight shake of his head. “I’m not sure. I’ve never thought to ask.”
I tsk my tongue. “Really? That shows a lack of curiosity, Mr. Mendelssohn. And a lack of curiosity could be a sign of depression. Or burn out. Or an overall lack of imagination.”
His lips quirk. “I appreciate your concern for my mental well-being. I’ll take that up with my therapist next week.”
“A therapist, huh?” I hesitate, but then decide it isn’t bad manners to ask about his therapist since he brought it up. “Is there something special you’re working on or is having a therapist just a rich person thing? Like getting a massage every Saturday?”
“A little of both,” he says, not seeming bothered by my questions. “I didn’t have the best childhood, but I worked through that some time ago. Now, it’s more about maintenance, and it’s nice to have someone impartial to talk to.”
“I can see that,” I say. “Or I can imagine it anyway. I’ve never had therapy. We couldn’t afford it when I was an angsty teen, and I grew up to be a pretty non-angsty adult so…” I trail off, fighting to control my tongue, but losing the battle again. “So, what did your therapist think of your plan to fly to Maine with a contract offering to get a strange woman pregnant with your baby in exchange for a condo and never seeing her again once the kid was born?”
He shrugs, seeming to consider that a moment before responding with his usual dry wit, “I didn’t tell her you were strange. Do you think that would have altered her feedback?”
I narrow my eyes as the car slows. “ Ha ha . You didn’t tell her, did you?”
“I plead the fifth,” he says, before reaching for the door handle. “And we’re here.”
I peek through his open door at a limestone masterpiece that makes me feel underdressed just looking at it from the outside. A beat later, the driver opens my door just as a man in a smart-looking black uniform appears to load our luggage from the trunk onto a small cart.
“You can just leave them in the entry, Pete, thank you,” Hunter says to the man, discreetly slipping a twenty into his hand.
“Of course, Mr. Mendelssohn. Welcome home,” Pete says with a professional nod for Hunter and a smaller nod acknowledging me. But he doesn’t make eye contact before he wheels his cart away, indicating we won’t be bothering with introductions at this juncture.
Which is fine. I doubt Hunter introduces his casual lady friends to the staff, and though what we’re doing isn’t casual, it is temporary.
The fewer connecting threads established between us, the better.
“Wow,” I murmur as we step through the sliding glass doors into the lobby, which is even more opulent than the exterior—all marble and crystal and old-world grandeur with fresh cut flower arrangements fancier than the ones at Maya’s wedding scattered thoughtfully throughout the space.
The understated white leather couches in the sitting area perfectly complement the ornate molding; the art on the walls is museum quality, and the self-serve beverage bar is stocked with three different coffee roasts in sterling silver carafes, as well as a wide variety of chilled drinks in the glass refrigerators beneath. Even the fridges are fancy and designed to look like they date to a bygone age of finery and filigree.
The only thing slightly out of place is the woman behind the security desk. She’s gorgeous, but in an edgy, modern way, with a spiky platinum haircut and tattoos peeking out from beneath the neck of her crisp uniform shirt.
She’s also hot…
Like, crazy hot…
When she looks up, dazzling, ice blue eyes meet mine, and her cheekbones take my breath away. If beauty standards for women weren’t still evolving at a snail’s pace, she could have been a model. But as it is, with her broad, muscular shoulders and equally sculpted forearms, she’s too traditionally masculine-looking to make it in the mainstream fashion world.
But she could certainly be cast as a lead in a movie adaptation of any of the spicy lesbian novels I’ve been reading lately.
And she does, indeed, seem to swing that direction, if the eye contact that she gives me as Hunter stops to fetch his mail is any indication…
“I’ll need to add Ms. Murphy to my ongoing guest list,” he says, attention on his letters as he flips through a small handful of what looks like business stuff. “She’ll be staying with me for a while.”
“Of course, welcome to the building, Ms. Murphy,” the woman says, holding my gaze a beat too long. “I’m Alex, the attendant on duty Monday to Friday from noon to eight p.m. Let me know if I can help you settle in in any way.”
Cheeks warmer than they were before, I return her smile, flattered, but not tingly in the way I wish I was. As hard as I’ve tried to expand my horizons, it appears I might just be plain old garden-variety straight.
Ugh. What a disappointing turn of events…
“Thank you so much. I appreciate that,” I say, lifting a hand Alex’s way as I follow Hunter toward the elevators.
The moment the doors close behind us, Hunter arches a brow as he taps his key card to the control panel and pushes the P4 button, presumably taking us to penthouse number 4. “Blushing, are we?”
I exhale a laugh as I bring my hands to my cheeks. “Am I?”
“Be careful. Alex is the biggest womanizer on the Upper West Side. She used to work on the Upper East Side, but she seduced too many Wall Street wives and had to flee across the park before she was drawn and quartered by their husbands. At this point, I’m pretty sure she’s single-handedly responsible for the bisexuality of at least fifteen percent of Manhattan.”
I sigh. “Well, then, I guess I really am a lost cause.”
“How so?”
“I’ve been reading a lot of sapphic romance lately, in hopes of turning myself gay. Or at least bisexual.”
“Really?” His tone is as dry as the Sahara. “And how’s that working out?”
“Not great,” I confess. “And Alex, though outrageously yummy, did not make me tingle.” I shrug. “I mean, I’m going to keep trying—men are the worst, and it would be great to have more options moving forward—but things aren’t looking good on that front.”
Before he can respond, the elevator doors open right into his apartment.
My eyes bulge as I take in the massive space, where our luggage is already waiting, tucked against the wall to our left near a console table that looks like it was carved out of a single chunk of California redwood.
“Woah, fancy much?” I ask, wandering into the room, taking in the giant living space with not three, but four couches, and a handful of decorative chairs, arranged in conversation areas near a vintage, pod-shaped fireplace in the center. It looks like there’s an equally massive kitchen to our left, but I can’t quite see around the corner, and I’m too busy taking in the million-dollar view.
Across the large, black shadow of Central Park, the skyline on the opposite side of Manhattan dazzles. The buildings rise like glittering sentinels against the darkening sky, the lights in their windows creating a constellation of artificial stars. Closer to ground level, the park’s winding paths are marked by the faint glow of vintage lampposts, weaving ribbons of light through the darkness.
The contrast is breathtaking—nature’s darkness embraced by the city’s perpetual glow—and I instantly know I’m going to love it here.
In this apartment, in this city…
“Not too shabby Mr. M,” I say, turning back to him with a grin. “Not too shabby at all.”
“Thank you, Ms. Murphy.” He’s already close, but then, suddenly, he’s closer, his hands on my hips, and I’m not about to complain. “I’m glad you approve of your prison.”
I bite my lip. “I think I’m going to enjoy it, actually. Your place is fucking beautiful.”
“You’re fucking beautiful, and during your time here, you’re mine,” he says, the possessive note in his voice sending a shiver down my spine.
But it isn’t foreboding.
No, it’s something far worse than that.
Those tingles I was hoping would zip across my skin when Alex flashed her baby blues my way? Well, they’re out in full force as Hunter begins to bunch the cotton skirt I put on for the plane in his hands, slowly drawing it up my calves.
I tilt my chin up, holding his gaze. “Yeah? So does that mean you don’t want me inviting Alex up for tea and cookies?”
“If she gets anywhere near your cookie, I’m challenging her to pistols at dawn.”
I start to laugh, but then he’s kissing me, a deep, hungry, laying-claim-to-what’s-his kiss that takes my breath away. His fingers tangle in my hair, tilting my head even farther back as his other hand splays across my lower back, pulling me closer.
He tastes like a hint of the champagne we had on the plane and desire, and smells like the cologne that’s been driving me crazy since the wedding. Every brush of his tongue against mine sends electricity racing down my spine, making my knees weak and my core clench with need.
When he finally lets me breathe, my lips are tingling and my heart thudding so loud I’m sure he can hear it.
“Someone’s feeling territorial,” I gasp as he guides me backward toward a sleek leather sofa.
The heat in his eyes as we move makes me feel like prey, but in the best possible way.
“Can you blame me?” My skirt is fully up around my hips now and my black lace panties bare to the conditioned air in the apartment. “After watching you seduce another woman with that little pout of yours, seconds before you tell me that you’re doing your best to get excited about eating pussy?”
My jaw drops as I exhale a laugh, my own pussy already aching for him. “I wasn’t seducing anyone! Take that back.”
“I will not.” He turns me suddenly, pressing me face-down over the arm of the sofa, making my breath rush out with an “oof” as I catch myself on the cool leather. A beat later my skirt is shoved up to my ribs. “Perhaps I need to remind you who you belong to. For now.”
The ‘for now’ sends a complicated mix of emotions through my chest, but they’re all overwhelmed by the desire pulsing between my legs as he rubs me through the soaked crotch of my panties.
“And who’s this for?” he asks, in a knowing way that makes it obvious he knows exactly who it’s for.
“You don’t have to invent excuses to fuck me,” I remind him, pushing back against his fingers. “If you can’t wait to be inside me, just say so.”
“Brat.” He rewards me with a sharp smack to my ass that makes me gasp and my pussy throb. “Always have to have the last word.”
“You like it,” I say as he jerks my panties to one side and glides a single finger through my slick, swollen folds. I add as my lashes flutter, “You like it a lot.”
“I do.” His voice is low, gravelly.
Just the sound of it is enough to make my nipples tight as he drags my panties down.
They catch on my thighs, and he roughly knees my legs wider, summoning a hungry sound from low in my chest. It echoes in the quiet air between us, igniting a heat that spreads like wildfire. Soon his hands are everywhere, jerking my tank top down to bare my breasts, somehow managing to tease my nipples even as he drags his zipper down, freeing his cock.
I feel it bob free, hot and heavy against my inner thigh and shudder with the force of how much I want him.
“I like a lot of things about you,” he murmurs, teeth dragging over the skin on my shoulder. “That’s the problem.”
My heart stutters in my chest, a dangerous, hopeful beating that threatens to unravel all my plans to hold this man at an emotional distance. But before I can fully process his admission, let alone how I feel about it, he glides two fingers inside me from behind, sending electricity rocketing across my skin.
I gasp, my head falling back as I call his name. Instantly his mouth is on my neck, whispering filthy things into my ear as he works me with his hand. This isn’t teasing or foreplay, this is a demand that I submit, that I give him the orgasm he’s calling forth like a necromancer bringing someone back from the dead.
I feel like I’m back from the dead with him, my long dry spell and all the disappointing lovers of the past few years forgotten as he reminds me why sex is the best thing ever.
Especially sex with him…
“Please…” The word escapes in a breathy moan, my hips rocking urgently against his hand, seeking more friction, more pressure, more of him. My skin feels too tight, my body coiled like a spring, ready to snap at any moment. But I don’t want to come on his hand. “I need your cock.”
“My cock?” His voice is rough, and it sends a fresh wave of heat rushing from my pussy to coat his fingers. He leans over me, his chest pressing against my back, the fabric of his suit a little scratchy, foreign and erotic against my bare skin. “Because you love cock, in general? And mine in particular?”
“Yes,” I manage, my head spinning. I claw my hands into the crevice between the cushions, fighting the orgasm threatening to overpower me. “I love your cock, and I want to come on it. Please.”
“I love it when you beg, brat,” he murmurs, his free hand tangling in my hair. He pulls my head back, forcing me to arch against him, my body bowing under his control. “I love it when you’re so desperate that all your pride goes up in smoke.”
“Please,” I beg again, whimpering now.
His grip is firm, unyielding, as he holds me in my bowed position beneath him, sending a thrill of submission racing through me. I’m completely at his mercy, and I fucking love it. I love being his brat and his good girl, the woman putting him through his paces and the slut who arches against his cock, shamelessly begging for him to take her like he means it.
“Please, God, Hunter,” I beg, gasping for air as I fight the need to spiral out with everything in me. “Please fuck me, please. I’ll do anything, I’ll be good. I’ll be so good, whatever you want, but please!”
“Good girl,” he says, replacing his hand with his cock and filling me with one deep thrust hard enough to send me scooting across the cushions.
I’m so desperate for him that I sob with relief. “Yes, oh, yes.”
He glides in and out again, even deeper this time, until he hits the end of me and we both groan. And then he takes me hard and deep and wild, exactly like I want him to, need him to.
His hands grip my hips hard, his fingers digging into my skin as he pulls me back against him, claiming me with a raw hunger that drives me crazy. His rhythm is relentless, each stroke hitting that perfect spot inside me that makes my vision blur and my knees weaken.
I can feel the tension coiling tighter and tighter in my core, a pressure building that threatens to shatter me into a thousand pieces.
“So close, so close,” I chant as the wave builds to dizzying heights inside me.
His breath is hot on my shoulder as he breathes, “Good. I want to feel you come on me before I fill you, Elaina. God, you fucking destroy me. I’m going to come so hard inside you. Fuck, Elaina. Fuck!”
His hand moves to my front, rubbing my clit with rough strokes of his fingers that obliterate me in two strokes. I come screaming his name, screaming to God, screaming to who the hell knows what as my body pulses and squeezes and comes for him, pulling him into the storm with me.
He utters a similarly abandoned cry for mercy to whatever gods did this thing to us—this crazy, perfect, wicked, possibly doomed and dangerous thing—and comes in thick, hot jets deep inside me. I can feel him filling me and it is every bit as hot as it was in the lifeguard stand, the thrill of knowing there’s nothing between us but skin drawing my bliss out for what feels like ages.
Eons.
I don’t know how long we lie trembling together on his couch, but by the time I finally swallow and glance up, the clock on the wall reads nearly an hour later than I expect.
I curse softly.
“What’s wrong?” he asks, his voice rough and his cock still buried in me from behind.
I turn over my shoulder, whispering, “It’s almost seven. What if the Thai place is already closed?”
He smiles as he arches a brow. “Woman, this is New York City. Restaurants don’t close at seven.”
“They don’t?”
“No, they don’t.” He kisses my shoulder before pulling back and standing to adjust his clothes. And though a part of me is sad to feel him leave me, I need a beat to recover from the intensity of what just happened.
And I’m hungry.
Really, really hungry…
“I think we need two orders of spring rolls,” I say, accepting the tissues he presses into my hand as I stand. I reach between my legs, catching the come that leaks from inside me. “Baby-making sex makes me hungry.”
“Fucking women straight again makes me hungry,” he says, already wandering into the kitchen. “I’ll order now. Two of everything and extra rice to share.”
“I was never gay,” I call after him, grinning in spite of myself.
“That’s what they all say,” he calls back, making me laugh.
Fuck, he’s funny.
And amazing at sex.
And has amazing taste in food, I realize half an hour later, as we tuck into the best Thai food I’ve ever had.
“Good thing he’s an asshole, or you’d totally fall in love with him,” I say to my reflection afterwards, as I’m applying my face lotions, post-shower, and getting ready to join him in his bed.
I’m wearing a black lace teddy and sinfully soft silk shorts, one of the dozens of new lingerie pieces Hunter bought for me sometime between last night and tonight and had delivered to his place. They were waiting in a drawer for me in the closet, right above another drawer filled with designer yoga clothes, fancy silk pajamas, and a vintage swimsuit I can’t wait to take for a turn by the pool.
Apparently, he enjoys spoiling me a little, and I’m not about to complain. I’ve never been spoiled. Hunter thinks I’m a brat, but I’m pretty sure brats have boyfriends who remember their birthdays, but none of my loser exes did.
I’ve never had a man get me a present for a special occasion, let alone just…because.
“Don’t fall for him. Don’t,” I warn, pointing a stern finger at my own face.
“Are you coming?” Hunter calls from his oh-so-swanky bedroom.
“Not yet, but I will be soon, I bet,” I whisper, a wicked grin curving my lips.
And, sure enough, we’re not twenty minutes into Ferris Bueller’s Day Off before Hunter is getting off inside me. I’m on top this time and the attention he gives to my nipples as I rock on him is top tier.
So top tier, I come even harder than I did in his living room, so hard I have no memory of falling asleep. I simply come myself unconscious and wake up near midnight, snuggled against Hunter in the little spoon position, feeling riskily safe and adored.