11. Eleven
eleven
GINGER
It’s unbelievable. What seeing his erection does to me is completely inappropriate. I’m practically panting as Elliot’s hand drifts to his belt.
Oh Jesus. What’s happening? Why can’t I make myself tell him to stop?
“I’d be on my best behavior with Kat, but you know me better than she does.” His voice is strained, drawn thin with need.
The same need rises inside me, too, clouding my judgment, demolishing everything in its fiery wake. A literal flood of hot, wet desire soaks my panties. I want this. Want him to whip it out, want to watch him stroke himself, but I need to be smart. But holy shit, it isn’t easy.
“I’m super glad you remember me so fondly, Elliot, but I’m not what you signed up for.”
Jaw ground together tight, he stares at me. “You see why we can’t work together?”
My head is spinning. My entire body buzzes like one raw nerve.“Because of your boner?”
“More or less,” he mumbles.
Figures. “So it’s just physical, then.”
“Very physical. But I guess it’s one-sided?”
I hedge. “I mean...”
“Yes or no?” There’s a demand in his voice. An edge. Like the answer to the question is important to him. With every soul-crushing thing he’s already put himself through and is about to put himself through again for the show, building up his confidence is a big part of what I’m here for. But I never thought the line I’d be walking would end up being so razor thin.
“You’re an extremely attractive man, Elliot.”
“Attractive to you?” he asks.
“I don’t matter.”
“Says who?”
“Your contract,” I respond, pointedly.
“I felt like we needed to resolve something, but if you’re all resolved...” His words trail off. He glances out the window in frustration.
“Are you not resolved?”
He makes a sharp gesture at his lap. “Apparently not.”
He’s still rock hard beneath the fabric of his pants. I have no idea how to get his head back in the game.
My mind reels with thoughts both acceptable and unacceptable. Appropriate and inappropriate. The solution to this dilemma eludes me, because what’s going on inside my own pants is equally problematic.
Bottom line: he wants a marriage, and I want a promotion. In the weeks and months after we spent our night together I’ve spent so many moments torn between wanting him all to myself or giving him back to the show, but I can’t give him what he wants. I’m not Jenna. I’m not ready to settle down and make a family and pack my career into a box to keep in the back of my closet. I’ve chosen my job over a man before, and I would do it all over again. And I have never been so close to something I’ve worked so hard for.
“What do you need, Elliot?” I ask, wanting to figure something out. “How do we make this work?”
“I don’t think it does, Ginger.”
“You want a wife, right?”
“Yes.”
“Every woman here wants the opportunity to be the one.”
“Not every woman.”
“I’m not interested in marriage,” I say, “but even if I were, you eliminated me as an option the second you put ink on that contract.”
“Careful, you sound disappointed.”
My face heats. I should have kept that thought to myself. But if this is where we’re going to air our dirty laundry, I can be honest, too.“Maybe. But I always knew I wasn’t your type.”
One look into his darkening eyes tells me I’m out of my depth.
“You have no idea what my type is,” he says.
“I knew Jenna pretty well.”
“So did I. She would have been a great wife, but I wouldn’t call her my type.” He winces, adjusting himself in his pants.
“Jesus. Still?”
“Yeah,” he says, some of his discomfort apparent in the rawness of his voice.
“Are you always like this? Did you get like this during your conversation with Amanda? Or Cassie?”
“Just you, Ginger.”
Something about those words turns me on more than the idea of watching him masturbate in a limo. A rush of endorphins hits my bloodstream. “Should I have let you finish? Would the conversation be more productive?”
He keeps quiet, brooding.
“We need to find you a wife.”
“I can be a handful.”
I almost laugh. As a grin stretches across my face, he smiles back.
Not once since he’s been here has he smiled like that for anyone else. In this moment, I want him as much, if not more, than I did that night at the Hilton. I have to clear my throat to make my words come out right. Averting my eyes, I say, “We should be at the Hacienda soon. You can wrap things up there in private.”
“Why are we still talking about this?” he asks, like he senses my resolve disintegrating.
“It’s like the elephant in the limo.” Without meaning to, I gesture at his lap.
“You can’t stop thinking about it, can you?”
I can’t. I really can’t.
It’s like it’s my erection. And I can’t help feeling somewhat possessive of it. It burns more than a little that I won’t get to enjoy it. Ever. Again.
Alarmed at the complete finality of the thought, I meet his eyes. I said goodbye to him. I walked out the door. I knew I’d see him again, the network would make him an offer he wouldn’t be able to refuse. I also knew I’d have to stand aside and let him find his future, and all we share is one tiny sliver of the past, but right now there’s a hunger in his gaze so specific , wanting one thing only, not just with his eyes, but with his entire body. He wants me .
Maybe it’s the limo, maybe it’s exhaustion. Maybe it’s the tidal wave of regret crashing down on me, or maybe it’s him, but something snaps. One thought propels me forward, off my seat and directly onto his lap:
Mine.
My calves align themselves against his thighs.
He smirks with a complete lack of surprise, which is also sexy as hell.
“Here I am. Did you want to touch me or not?”
He swallows hard, like one more second of restraint might do him in. Jaw grinding, the muscles in both his cheeks twitch. “Do you want me to?”
It’s too late to pretend I don’t. Hips thrusting, I move against him, seeking the sensation of his hard cock grinding across the center seam of my pants.
He exhales, jaggedly. My thighs quiver at the sound of it.
Desperate to get this one last mistake out of my system, I unbutton my blouse, but don’t waste time taking it off. Instead, I shove my flimsy bralette above my breasts, exposing myself to him in a graphic and hurried way. “Happy birthday.”
“Thank you.” He takes me by the waist and sits up straight, causing me to arch backward, leaving my chest completely available to him. “Best gift ever,” he whispers before sucking one of my breasts into his mouth.
My gasp turns into a low moan as I rock against his lap, our pants creating just enough friction. His teasing licks against my nipple send lust screaming through my body, and all at once, my pent-up need builds toward a fast release. His hand moves to support my back as his mouth glides across my bare chest, sucking and probing and devouring whatever he manages to get a mouthful of.
My thrusts against him slow and lengthen, desperation transforming into a desire to prolong this—this complete violation of a rule neatly spelled out in both our contracts. The knowledge of that doesn’t do anything to stop me, though. It only works to make the moment hotter, more illicit.
Dirty , exactly how I like him.
“Talk to me,” I whisper.
“And tell you what?” He licks the underside of my breast. “How much I want you? That this is all I’ve been thinking about since the second you left me?”
“Yeah...lie if you have to.”
A murmur of a laugh. He kisses a hot path across my nipple before sucking it between his teeth. He pulls me closer, his mouth grazing my throat as his hand moves up my spine to cradle the back of my head. “I can’t wait to be inside you again.”
“No. No fucking way.” I haven’t completely lost my mind. I still have a strong enough sense of self-preservation to say no to that .
He meets my eyes, confused. “You didn’t like it?”
“We were on vacation.”
He grunts his frustration, his hips thrusting up, pressing his cock more firmly against me. “Did you like it or not?”
Of course I liked it. Look at me, for fuck’s sake. I push his jacket off his shoulders and struggle with a way to get my hands against his skin, yanking at the back of his shirt to gather the fabric in my quickly moving fists. God, it fits him too well. I can’t manage it.
Like he knows exactly what I’m searching for with my frantic hands, he leans back, giving me better access to the front. I start unbuttoning immediately, and with every fastening I undo, more of him is revealed.
“Tell me you liked it, Ginger. Tell me you hated it.” He helps me with the buttons from the bottom up, and we meet in the middle, both working to get the shirt off him. Once it’s in a heap on the floorboard, I press my hands against his back, tightening our closeness, smothering my stinging nipples with the heat of his chest.
Our foreheads met, bringing our mouths close enough to share heavy breaths. “Tell me you remember what it felt like,” he says.
As if I could forget.
He used me up. He wrung me out, but I didn’t left destroyed. I left cleansed and new. It was different, and I’ve always found I have a love-hate relationship with anything different.
“I liked it. I hated it. I tried to forget you...”