18. Scarlet
EIGHTEEN
SCARLET
A sense of déjà vu crashes over me as I wake to a steel rod pressing into my back. Blinking groggily, I struggle to make sense of the situation. Then a rough hand twitches against my stomach, bringing me fully into the here and now.
It's not a steel rod. Well, it's Ellis's steel rod. And the feeling of it pressed so snugly against my ass is giving me all sorts of thoughts I have no business thinking.
Like if it would jump when I touched it, how he tastes, how he'd feel sliding inside of me.
I clench my thighs together, trying to force the deliciously dirty thoughts away. But apparently, Ellis is very much on the same page as my cavewoman brain, because he shifts in his sleep, thrusting against me.
His fingers flex, pressing into the soft skin of my stomach. It takes everything in me not to whimper. I should probably wake him up. Because god knows if he was awake, he'd want no part of this.
But at the same time, it's been so long...
No, absolutely not, I scold myself internally. Shake it off, Scar. You're not desperate enough to settle for a man touching you in his sleep when he's not even aware he's doing it.
“Ellis,” I whisper.
“Mmmm,” he groans. “Say it again.”
My cheeks burn so bright, I worry that they might actually burst into flames. “Ellis, oh my god.” I shift backwards trying to get him to wake up, but all I really succeed in doing is rubbing my ass more firmly against his cock.
He groans again. “Playing with fire, Princess.”
“Just trying to wake you up.”
“Trust me, I'm wide awake,” he growls. “I’m about fifteen seconds from flipping you on your back and—”
“And what?” I ask breathily.
“Fuuuuuck.” He groans and rolls away from me, hefting himself into a seated position. “I'm gonna take a shower.”
He cuts across the room in a few long strides, crossing the threshold, but he doesn’t shut the door. I don’t know if he knows it, but I can see his reflection in the mirror and gasp when he shucks off his underwear.
His eyes flick up, a dirty smirk curving his lips. “Like what you see?”
“I swear to God, Ellis.”
He fists his cock and saunters over to the bathroom door. “Not used to having overnight guests.” He winks and shuts the door.
I sag back against the pillows, panting. This is definitely not how I saw my morning starting. My clit throbs incessantly as I think about what I’m almost one hundred percent positive he's doing in the bathroom.
The urge to touch myself is strong… stronger than I've ever felt before.
It's not like he'd know, I reason with myself, slipping my hands beneath the waistband of my sleep shorts.
“Oh god,” I whimper, biting down on my lip.
The thought of him catching me turns me on as much as it mortifies me. Because, as embarrassing as it would be, my mind can’t help but run wild imagining all the different ways he could react.
Would he merely watch? Guide me? Touch himself? Or would he knock my hand away and take over?
I slide my index and middle fingers along my slit, gathering my arousal before pressing my fingers to my clit, working myself in small, fast circles.
Is he thinking of me right now, too? Is it fucked up that I hope he is?
My toes curl as my orgasm builds, closer and closer, until I hear his deep, guttural groan through the bathroom door.
Then it’s game over. Lights out. I shoot off like a bottle rocket in his bed, coming harder than I have in god knows how long.
“Oh my god.” How is it possible for my heart to be racing when my limbs feel like jelly?
Holy shit. I just masturbated in Ellis Wilder's bed. Momentarily, I wonder if spontaneous combustion is a real thing, and if so, can I burst into flames right the fuck now, please and thank you? Because one thing’s for certain... he can never, ever know.
I'm still catching my breath when Ellis strolls back into the room with a white towel slung low around his hips. His still-wet hair is combed back, highlighting the strong contours of his stupidly handsome face. It pisses me off he looks so good fresh out of the shower. I’m usually red and splotchy, thanks to my need for scalding hot water.
“Don't you look cozy.” He leans against the doorframe and raises a brow.
No mirror needed, I’m sure my cheeks are as pink as my freshly pedicured toenails. “What?”
He smirks and straightens, standing to his full height. “If you want to shower, get in there. I’d like to get a head start on the day.”
“What does that even mean?” I sit up and tug his overstuffed duvet closer.
“For starters, we need to file another police report. Which means we need to go back to your apartment and—”
I cut him off. “You don’t have to come with me to do that.”
“Me going with is non-negotiable.”
“Oh.” I smooth the blanket down around me.
“So get ready and meet me in the kitchen for breakfast.”
“Breakfast?” Everything he’s saying makes sense, but my brain can’t seem to actually process it. Aftereffects of my solo orgasm, I’m sure.
“Yes, Princess. Haven’t you heard, it’s the most important meal of the day.”
“Sure, okay.” I nod. “I have heard that.”
He snorts but doesn’t say anything else.
I wait for him to step into his closet before kicking off the covers and darting into the bathroom. A small part of me thinks he knows exactly what happened in his bed while he showered, but I force that particular worry from my mind as I fly through getting ready.
Throwing my hair up into a bun, I take a quick shower, before dry shampooing my hair. I don't skimp on my skincare, though.
Once I'm finished in the bathroom, I dress in a pair of yoga shorts and a racerback tank before popping my birth control pill into my mouth and swallowing it dry.
I go to grab my phone to mark that I took it, but it’s missing.
“Have you seen my phone?” I ask as I enter the kitchen.
Ellis shakes his head, and we both glance toward the couch. Sure enough, it's sitting on the cushion.
I curse under my breath. “It's probably dead.”
“You're in luck. I have outlets and electricity. Plug ‘er in.”
I press my lips together, barely holding in my laugh. “You're an idiot, but thanks.” I grab my cord from my bag and plug it in at the island.
“What sounds good for breakfast?”
“As long as there's caffeine involved, I don't care.”
“That's a given.” He grabs a matte black cannister and pops it open. The aroma of coffee beans fills the space between us, and I inhale deeply.
“You don't use like a Nespresso machine or a Keurig?”
“Nope.” He shakes his head as he grabs a small scale and weighs out a portion of beans before pouring them into a grinder. “I grind my own beans and make it with a French press. It's the only way.”
This time, I do try to hold in my laugh. “Aren't you bougie?”
“You say bougie; I say a man of impeccable taste.”
“Whatever you have to tell yourself.” I plop down onto a barstool and power my phone on.
“It's fine, Princess.” He pours hot water from a kettle into his French press, swishing it momentarily, before pouring it out and adding the ground coffee. “When you taste it, I'll accept your apology.”
I mock the words back to him as he stirs the grounds and liquid with a wooden spoon. “Apology, my ass.”
“Stop being a brat. Do you want French toast or omelets?”
I rub my hands together. “French toast, definitely.”
After a few minutes, he presses down the plunger, grabs two mugs, and pours us each a cup of coffee, once again doctoring mine to perfection, with just the right amount of cream and cinnamon.
I bring the mug to my nose and inhale deeply, groaning in delight as the scent reaches my nostrils. “Smells good,” I say before taking a sip. “Oh, holy shit,” I moan. “That is amazing.”
He smirks as he sets to work making an egg concoction with vanilla and cinnamon before grabbing a loaf of brioche bread from his pantry.
“What?” I ask, even though I already know damn well what. He wants to gloat about his superior coffee making skills.
“No, nothing.” He’s going for oblivious, but it’s not working.
“Ellis.”
“I’m not saying I told you so, but yeah, I fucking told you so.”
“You did. But I’m too lazy, so Nespresso it is for me.”
Before I know it, he's plated up a whole stack of fluffy, perfectly grilled French toast, complete with powdered sugar, fresh sliced strawberries, whipped cream, heated syrup and a side of crispy bacon.
“This is really good,” I say around a forkful of food. “Where’d you learn to cook like this?” It’s honestly annoying, because is there anything the man is bad at?
“My mama.” He cuts off a piece of his French toast and pops it in his mouth. “Now less talking, more eating. We’ve got shit to do.”