Chapter Thirteen #2
“Of course, I picked right back up when you guys started dating.” I hate Elliot for making me spill my secret like that. He keeps eating happily like he didn’t just nearly cost me several delicious meals a week and free dog-sitting every other day.
The dessert comes with an extra serving for me. I resist the urge to stick my tongue out at Elliot.
“Did mom call you last week?” I ask Matt when Elliot and Oliver start talking about someone neither of us knows.
“Yes, is this your way of bringing up Mrs. Laney’s niece?” he rolls his eyes.
As if he isn’t dying to talk about Mrs. Laney’s niece. “Dude, she planted poison ivy in Mrs. Gibson’s garden just because she refused to give a ball back. That’s a psychopath in the making,” I point out.
He smiles. “But it’s so funny. I mean, it must have taken a strong commitment to wait for them to grow up. Girl has too much patience for a seven-year-old,” he says. “Unless it was Mrs. Laney who gave her the plants in the first place. They didn’t get along all that well.”
I tilt my head. Interesting.
“They had this huge fight—”
“I’m gonna head out. Have to open early tomorrow,” I hear Elliot telling Oliver.
“—Me too,” I stand up quickly, midway through Matt’s walk down memory lane.
He raises an eyebrow at me. I ignore him and look for Mickey. He’s already snoozing on his bed in the corner of the living room. He’d hate me for waking him up.
“You have a shift tomorrow, right?” Oliver follows me to the living room.
I nod. “Why?”
“You can leave him here and pick him up after work tomorrow,” he offers.
My eyebrows go up at that.
“Matt has an off day too, so he can take Mickey for all the runs he wants to go on,” he explains.
I nod in understanding, and Elliot snorts.
We walk out together and get in the elevator. Elliot looks completely at ease, like we’re just two strangers. Should I bring up the text? But that will make me look creepy.
Too late for that, Nick.
Or I can broach the subject of the next date. We can have dinner again. Somewhere casual this time, not as fancy as the last place. Better yet, I can invite him over. Cook for him. Get him comfortable so that he can be interrogated again. Maybe loosen him up with some drinks.
We’re already walking towards our cars in the underground parking, while I’m still trying to come up with a way to talk to him. “You want to come over?” I blurt out when we’re standing next to Elliot’s car.
His brows furrow. I hurry to clarify, but then his expression changes. Is that regret? “I really do have to open the clinic early tomorrow,” he explains.
Fuck. I nod. “Maybe some other time then?” I ask.
“Sure,” he shrugs.
“That is, if you ever get around to replying to my texts,” I say in a teasing tone.
“Texts? Plural?” he tilts his head.
I huff out a laugh. “Okay, one text. But it was your turn to reply. Then I would have said something. That’s how texts work.”
“Your text was non-reply-able,” he says primly.
“That’s not a thing, Elliot,” I say, but my stupid smile won’t let me sound serious.
“Your text created a new thing then, Nicholas,” he stresses, and I suddenly realize we’re standing close enough that I could just lean down and taste those pink lips right now. His sharp, spicy-sweet scent surrounds me.
I notice he has some stubble on his face that’s too rare for him. Maybe he really is working too much.
Shit, what were we talking about? Oh yeah. “It was a perfectly normal first text,” I say without any heat.
“Seriously, a text about the weather? Normal?” his voice comes out a bit low, too. His gaze drops to my lips. There and gone.
This time, I do lean down, closing the gap between us, and capture his mouth. The heat hits me first. Then the softness. I move my lips slowly over his, savoring his taste. Sweet. Too sweet for Elliot.
I try to pull him closer, but it’s difficult because of the height difference.
Shit, what am I doing? I should have asked him if he even wanted this. What if I’m intimidating him into this?
I pull back. He looks dazed as he blinks his eyes open. “Fuck, I’m sorry. I should have asked—” He closes the gap again, rising onto his tiptoes. He takes my lip between his teeth and bites it just enough to hurt.
Message received. I push him back against his car and cover his body with mine. Every point of contact is vying for my attention. Then he opens his mouth, and nothing else exists.
I slide my tongue into his mouth and chase down the sweetness that suddenly fits him perfectly. Every stroke of his tongue raises the temperature until all I feel is heat. My hand travels from the back of his neck to his hair. I take small satisfaction in messing him up—my perfect Dr. Elliot.
I grab at his hair and pull his head back to adjust the angle so I can plunge my tongue into his mouth easily. He moans, and I get the encouragement to explore his tight, muscular body thoroughly.
Fuck, he’s so hot. This sneaky bastard with his innocent looks and sharp comments. I bite his lower lip. Not too hard, but to make him feel it. Feel me.
His body rubs against mine firmly, some parts more firm than others. Not that I have any leg to stand on. I grind my thighs against his erection, and he makes a noise closer to a squeal than a moan. Fuck, I want to hear that again.
Then he’s backing up, his mouth moving away from mine. I chase it. I can’t take the space right now. Not when he’s prone to disappearing every minute he’s not right here in my arms.
He kisses me back, but slowly with a closed mouth. Then pulls his head back, our bodies still welded together.
“Fuuck, I have to go, Nicholas,” he says.
And this time I let him pull back. But just far enough so he can explain.
My hand stays tangled in his hair, and the other on his ass. It takes everything in me not to squeeze.
“You have to go,” I say, my breath heavy like I just came back from a long run.
“I really do,” he says, sounding just as apologetic as I feel.
I drop my hands and take a step back. I hate when his hands slide away, too. He looks sufficiently ruffled, and that sends a fresh wave of heat through my body.
I did that. Made him look so disheveled, his T-shirt slightly untucked, mouth red and swollen, hair all over the place.
I studiously ignore my own appearance and the tent in my pants. “Reply to my texts,” I say. It comes out throaty.
He snorts. “Send reply-able texts then.” His smirk is back, but it’s softer. He’s softer. Fuck, I’d give anything to find out just how soft I can make him when I have time.
But I laugh and let him get into the driver’s seat even though I’m only forty percent sure he’s not ditching me because I said no the last time. That would be fair, though. And so him.
I watch him drive away until I can’t anymore. Then I drag myself back to my car. Everything in me is telling me to follow him back to his house. I can get another glimpse if I do. I don’t even have Mickey, so no responsibilities.
I start the ignition. This is such a bad idea.