5. Claire
Five
Claire
W ant to hear something tragic? These drunken noodles are completely wasted on me. They’re the best noodles in the city, our go-to Thai order, and normally I can’t stop slurping and moaning as we eat them. One time, I groaned so loudly over these noodles that Elliot threw a cushion at my head and called me a noodle pervert.
Tonight, though, I barely register each mouthful. Flavors and textures pass me by as I chew in a daze, my whole body tingling as I stare at the TV screen.
Shapes, colors, sounds. I don’t really see the movie either.
I’m on high alert for one thing, and one thing alone.
Elliot .
Was he going to kiss me? He sure seemed like he might, with those dark blue eyes locked on me, his jaw going taut with determination. And the way he shifted forward, muscles flexing under his shirt—the way he loomed over me in the gloom, like he wanted to blanket my whole body under his—
The squeal of tires makes me jump, and I stare unseeing at another car chase. A sliver of onion slips from between my chopsticks, dropping back into my bowl.
In all our years of best-friendship, in all this time of nursing my secret crush, Elliot Ramsay has never hinted that he might want more. Is this new? I guess marrying a girl might make you see her in a new light… but if it is new, what took him so long?
Maybe Elliot needed the prompt. Maybe he needed to see me in a white gown on that rooftop, to slide his ring onto my finger, before the possessiveness kicked in. Or maybe that—that thing with the chocolate cake flipped a switch in his brain.
I don’t know what came over me. For the last week, I’ve replayed that kitchen encounter over and over in my mind, drowning in embarrassment and arousal, trying to make sense of my own behavior, but it’s hopeless.
It’s like…
I surrendered to instinct. Put my poor, frazzled brain on autopilot, then sat back to watch the chaos ensue. And instead of pushing me away like I figured Elliot would—like I would have bet my life savings that he would—my new husband joined in the madness.
He gripped me close.
Rough sounds escaped his throat.
He tilted his head to give me a better angle, all while his pulse raced beneath his jaw.
And over the last week, I’ve been wondering… how much of that was Elliot being swept up in the moment? Overloaded by new sensations? How much of it was real?
Tradition, he said. He was bowing to tradition.
But tradition can’t make a man’s heartbeat race beneath your palm. Can it?
“Not good?” Elliot says now, his deep voice rasping. He nods at my chopsticks, but it still takes a long pause for me to realize what he’s asking. My thoughts are caught in the quicksand of him —how handsome he looks in the light from the TV screen, how good he smells beneath the garlic and soy permeating the room, how his weight on the sofa cushion next to mine is the world’s most maddening tease. So solid. So close.
“Oh! No, this is great. Delicious. Thank you.” My chopsticks dig into the pile of slippery noodles, and I shove a huge bite into my mouth until my cheeks bulge like a hamster’s. “Mmm.”
Elliot stares like I’ve lost my mind. I chew pointedly until he turns back to the movie, and when he looks away, my shoulders sag.
For years, I’ve dreamed of Elliot looking at me like that—like he wanted to swallow me whole. Then the freaking door buzzer goes. What if that was my only chance? What if I’m doomed to experience three almost-kisses with the man of my dreams, then slide back into eternal spinsterhood?
I could date other guys, I guess. Even though I’m technically married to Elliot, I doubt he’d care.
But I don’t want other guys. I never have. And that’s how you wind up a nearly thirty year old virgin, ladies and gentlemen.
By the time the credits roll, I’m a wreck. My empty bowl is on the coffee table alongside my mug, and I’ve drawn my knees up to my chest and wrapped my arms around my shins. Generic action movie music blares from the TV speakers, and I’m rocking myself gently, my teeth gritted.
Elliot picks up the remote and turns the TV off. The sudden silence is more deafening than all those car chases combined.
Elliot stares at me for a long moment, then sighs.
His knees hit the rug, and I jump once again. What is he— what ?
My new sort-of-fake husband wedges himself between me and the coffee table, still managing to loom even on his knees. Elliot places two steadying hands on my shoulders and gives a gentle squeeze.
His frown deepens. “You’re tense.”
No kidding. I’m so tense, my teeth are practically chattering, and god, I knew I shouldn’t come to this movie night. Knew I couldn’t trust myself to spend time with Elliot in his apartment without doing something weird, not since The Dreaded Kitchen Encounter.
For years and years, we’ve hung out as just friends. Best friends, yes, with me harboring a tragic crush, but still—platonic. In all that time, we watched countless movies together and I acted so, so normal.
Now I can’t spend five minutes in this apartment without wanting to pounce on Elliot and tear his shirt clean off. Can’t sit beside my new husband without picturing how it would feel to lick his bare abs, or rake my nails down his back, or hear the smack of his palm against my ass cheek. Without shuddering with desire every time his rumbly voice cuts through the quiet.
Elliot can really fixate on things. When he finds a new interest, it gets his whole, unwavering attention. What would that be like in bed?
Gah! Stop it, brain.
“Claire.” Elliot’s thumbs trace along my collarbone, and I practically melt into the sofa cushions beneath his touch. Since when did he go in for all this casual contact? My best friend-slash-boss could do anything to me right now, touch me anywhere, and I’d be putty in his hands. “Are you alright?”
Hm. Am I alright?
Debatable.
“This is weird,” I squeak. “Right? Tell me this is weird.”
Elliot frowns at his own hands on me; the way I’m quivering under his touch; the blush staining my throat. Everything.
Then he nods. “Yes. This is a little weird.”
But he doesn’t take his hands away, and I don’t push him off either. Our breaths come faster in the quiet living room, and oh god, oh god, oh god.
Outside, the city lights twinkle, brighter than the stars far above. Traffic rumbles in the street, drivers leaning on their horns or blasting music, but we can barely hear it through the thick penthouse windows.
It’s like we’re the only two people in the whole world right now. The last living souls in the universe.
Elliot dips the tip of his thumb beneath my sleep shirt, pressing it against bare skin. My whole body turns molten, and I go so still, desperate to see what he’ll do next. Silently pleading for him to keep going.
“Okay?” Elliot’s voice is pure gravel. He watches me closely, navy blue eyes so intent, as the pad of his thumb rests lightly against my sternum.
It’s an innocent touch. Barely anything at all.
And my insides squirm for more, more, more.
“Y-yeah.” I nod quickly. “Keep going. Please. ”
And I didn’t mean to add that last part—would have told you I’m way too proud to beg—but when Elliot hears it, it’s like a jolt of electricity travels down his spine. He straightens, eyes flashing, and slides his whole thumb beneath my shirt, breaching the outer layer of my clothes.
Goosebumps ripple down my arms.
Elliot has never touched me like this. Hell, before our wedding, he’d barely touched me at all.
Now his chest rises and falls, and he is laser focused on the spot where our bodies meet; that tiny point of skin-to-skin contact. He strokes me so gently, with so much reverence, but as the moment stretches on he presses firmer, gets greedy, wants more.
“Elliot,” I whisper, and when he looks up at me, his eyes are almost pure black. “You don’t have to hold back.”
His throat shifts as he swallows, and without warning, my new husband grips my hips and yanks me to the edge of the sofa. A surprised laugh bursts out of me, and I grip his shoulders for balance, even as my legs settle on either side of his waist.
A needy pulse throbs between my thighs. Is this really happening? Snaking my hands behind Elliot’s neck, I pinch my own wrist to be sure.
…Ow.
Okay, yeah, this is real. This isn’t some delicious fever dream. Elliot Ramsay, my best friend and boss, is pressing my knees wider so he can shift closer to my core. Elliot, the man who refuses handshakes and doesn’t like the sensory overload of a crowded elevator, is ducking his head and capturing my lips with his.
And— god.
The heat of him. The hungry press of his mouth against mine, stern and demanding; the way his head tilts so he can kiss me deeper, harder, more. If you’d asked me to imagine Elliot’s first kiss, I’d have guessed he’d be detached and clinical. Going through the motions so he could get it over with.
Joke’s on me, because Elliot lets out a ragged groan and slips his tongue past my lips. He grips my hips and yanks me half off the sofa, rubbing our trembling bodies together, and he’s hard and hot as sin.
Thank god he wants this too, at least enough to try it once. Thank god he wants it with me , because I might have grown old and frail and gone to my grave never knowing how it feels when every cell in my body comes alive at once, singing out in harmony.
Elliot kisses me until my head spins and my lips are raw. He kisses me until my jaw aches and my throat is dry and my legs are so shaky, I may never walk again. Then, and only then, does he hook his thumbs in the waistband of my leggings and tug them down an inch.
He pauses. Pulls back enough to look at me—and when he sees how utterly ruined I am, Elliot lights up brighter than ever before.
“Can I?” He’s breathless, but clearly still has plenty left in the tank. Guess I’ll need to work on my stamina if this ever happens again, because I’m a boneless wreck right now. “I want to taste you, Claire.”
My nod is dazed, but I manage to shift my weight and help Elliot get my leggings off. He whips my fluffy socks off too, scowling with distaste at their texture before flinging them at the wall, and it’s so Elliot that I want to laugh and cry.
His knees must hurt after kneeling so long, but Elliot shifts back without a single wince to get a better angle of attack. He grips my thighs and kneads them, apparently thrilled with how squishy they are, before pressing them wider.
Jeez.
Never been exposed like this, the most private parts of me bared to the cool air, held open for someone else’s inspection. It’s so vulnerable, my neck tightens—and I might snap my legs closed, except this is Elliot.
Elliot, who I trust with my life.
Elliot, who’s staring between my legs like he’s discovered the holy grail.
And you know, it’s impossible to feel embarrassed about the state of my bikini line when my hot, muscly boss growls with hungry approval.
“You don’t have to—” I start to say, because Elliot can be funny about textures and tastes and all sorts of things, and the last thing I want is to weird him out or overload him. But then hot breath puffs against my slit, and a warm tongue slides through my folds, and holy shit this is happening.
My toes curl. My back arches. I grab at the sofa cushions, my knees, my own bedraggled braid, before settling on Elliot’s hair. It’s thick and dark and soft and springy, and I weave my fingers through it and cling on for dear life as he eats my pussy.
“Fuck,” Elliot says, the word tingling against my clit. He’s not holding back at all, not tip-toeing in, and when I catch a glimpse of his cheeks—half his face is shiny with my slick. “Claire. My Claire. Fuck .”
My breaths are shallow, and I whimper, grinding myself against Elliot’s mouth. He grunts and gets back to work, licking and sucking and laving, his dark hair tickling my inner thighs.
His long, thick finger breaches me without warning, sliding past my entrance, and I let out a cry and arch off the sofa. Down between my legs, his ring finger presses inside me, the metal band gleaming in the dim room, and humor sparks when I meet Elliot’s gaze.
He raises an eyebrow. I wheeze out a laugh.
Because this is nuts. So ridiculous and crazy and hot , and everything he’s doing feels so good, and I never, ever want it to end. Never want reality to crash back in; never want to have to stand on these shaky legs and shuffle my way to the bathroom to clean up. I’d rather live in this moment, perfectly preserved, with Elliot Ramsay’s mouth on me forever, his ring finger pumping inside me and lighting up my nerve endings.
My hips roll, humping the air, but I’m too far gone to be embarrassed. Elliot latches onto my clit and sucks hard, and my howl bounces off the living room walls.
I clamp down on his ring finger.
I shudder and pant and come so hard my vision wavers.
Then I collapse back onto my boss’s sofa in a sweaty, flushed heap.