Chapter 5 Elle
ELLE
“First rule as an understudy: Learn your lead.”
The stranger’s car is cramped, and I realize too late that it probably isn’t the best place for a hookup. But seated next to this six-three Adonis with messy, dark brown hair and eyes like soft green moss, I don’t really care.
“Isn’t the first rule usually something like be positive, or take the role seriously?”
I lean over the console, pressing my index finger to his lips. “Shh. Understudies don’t question the director’s authority.”
“But I thought you were the lead.”
“There you go again.”
His swallow is audible. “Okay. I’ll be good.”
“You say that, but it doesn’t really feel like you’re trying.”
“What else can I do?”
“Well, for starters, we’re still so far apart.”
He glances between us, then at my hand still against his mouth. Seeming to come to some sort of conclusion, he reaches around his side, sliding the seat back a couple of inches with the yank of a lever. The chair reclines, freeing up space on his lap.
“Climb over,” he says softly, spreading his thighs a bit. Strong, powerful thighs that strain beneath the fabric of brown slacks, bunching up at his groin so the outline of him is obscured.
My breath hitches anyway.
“Are you sure?” I ask, peering closer.
Discomfort lines the edges of his face, and he sweeps his large hands over his legs as if trying to psych himself up.
“Just do it, temptress.”
Something about his no-nonsense tone has me scrambling, losing my tenuous grasp on control of the situation. For a moment, as I’m shimmying over the console, I wonder if it’s possible he’s tricked me into thinking he doesn’t do this kind of thing.
It wouldn’t be the first time a man lied to get me into a vulnerable position, but I’d thought I’d gotten better at detecting their bullshit.
My throat burns as I crawl into his lap. I half expect him to paw at me the moment I’m in his vicinity, but instead he keeps his hands dutifully low, watching every move I make with the eyes of a hawk.
I brace myself on the headrest and plant my knees at his hips. Though he doesn’t touch me, there’s a heat blazing in his gaze, caught in the moonlight spilling in through the sunroof.
“Temptress?” I probe in a low voice. He called me that earlier too. At the gas station.
“Siren, vixen, dragueuse. Whichever label you prefer.”
“Dragueuse?”
“It’s French.”
“What does it mean?”
His breath skates across my collarbone. “Flirt.”
My pulse scatters. “I see. So you were lying when you said you weren’t familiar with the gesture.”
“No. I meant what I said. Flirting is not my forte.” Shifting, he rests his head against the seat, letting his eyes dip to my lips briefly.
“Then I just bring it out in you?”
“If this conversation qualifies, I suppose so.”
This feels so different from every other hookup I’ve had. No matter what gender, a quick fuck is usually just that—quick. Fleeting. Over once you’ve climaxed—or, in a lot of cases with my masculine partners, pretended to—and moved on to the next thing.
In LA, everyone in my adult community theater troupe was fucking. It was like its own little commune, the place where jealousy, lust, and moral support thrived.
But it was easy enough not to get attached, especially when I ventured outside the group.
Maybe this just feels different because it’s the first time I’ve sought any external gratification since my dreams went up in flames.
Or maybe it’s the soft glint in those mossy eyes that warms me from the inside out.
“So…” He fills the silence, drawing me back in. “Where are you from?”
My shoulders slump. “And you ruined it.”
“What?” He frowns. “Did you not just tell me to get to know my lead?”
“I meant like”—I grab one of his hands, placing it high on my thigh where my dress has ridden up—“this.”
His swallow reverberates in my stomach, and his touch is ice cold. “Ah.”
“Well?”
“Well…what?”
“What do you think?”
A fire licks up my spine as he pauses, then curls his fingers against me, leaving indentations where he grips. The pressure is delightful, and my throat contracts around nothing, desire searing the inside.
“I think you’re dangerous.”
Covering his hand with mine, I slide it even higher, over my side and up to the curve of my breast. Without my coat, the outline is perfectly visible, and my muscles cinch tight with the contact.
He doesn’t resist, just lets me do what I want, and I find that oddly fascinating.
“Dangerous,” I mutter, letting my palm fall to his chest. I fan my fingers out, waiting to see what he does next. If he’s an actor who takes stage direction into his own hands or one that needs guidance all the way through. “Is that another one of your theories?”
“You ask a lot of questions.”
“No more than you.” I slip my pinkie beneath a gap in his neckline, touching bare skin. “Besides, you seem like someone with answers.”
“That’s where you’re wrong,” he replies, his words barely audible as his thumb grazes the underside of my breast ever so gently. “I know very little, actually. Everything inside was a lucky guess.”
His featherlight touch makes me dizzy. “So you’re not omnipotent?”
“Pattern recognition and heightened observation skills. Nothing terribly fancy, I’m afraid.”
My eyes narrow. “You’re deflecting.”
“Yes.” He glances at my lips, licking his. “I am.”
“Why?”
“You make me nervous.”
“Oh.”
“Not in a bad way,” he adds quickly. “In a you could probably ruin my life and I wouldn’t stop you way.”
Heat flares in my abdomen, radiating downward. “Are you always so honest?”
“No,” he whispers.
I hum, leaning forward so our noses brush. “I’m not sure I believe you.”
He smells like apricots and trees, cedar or pine. Like danger and bad decisions.
“What would I get for lying? If anything, I’m the vulnerable one here.”
“You could overpower me if you wanted.”
There’s a long pause, but eventually his free hand comes up, his thumb plucking lazily at my bottom lip. Again, his touch is icy, and I wonder if it’s because of how warm my skin feels.
“Not the kind of vulnerability I’m talking about there, temptress.”
My heart hammers in my throat. “I have a name.”
A dark glint flashes in his gaze. He swallows, allowing that same hand to fall before sliding it around my waist. My dress hikes up my thighs, leaving just his pants and the thin fabric of my underwear between us.
Slowly, he leans in, disturbing the snake charm choker fastened at my throat and skimming his nose along my collarbone. Inhaling me. “What is it?”
I can barely hear him. “What is what?”
His chuckle sends goose bumps spraying down my arms. “Your name.”
My stomach twists, and I sit back a little, meeting his electric gaze. A heaviness fills the air, and I wonder if he feels it too—if it’s just performance anxiety or the Fury Hill atmosphere that’s so suffocating.
“I’m sorry,” I tell the stranger, withdrawing. “I really wasn’t looking for anything serious.”
“And a name changes that?”
“Obviously.”
“Why don’t we test that theory?”
“What do you mean?”
Before I can disentangle myself, his palms slide beneath the straps of my dress, lifting them from my shoulders in one smooth move. He keeps his eyes on mine as he slips the straps off, waiting for me to protest, but I don’t.
Now my chest is totally bare, and as he drinks me in, embarrassment fans across my face.
I don’t know why. I’ve never been uncomfortable in my body before. But something about this moment makes me crave his approval.
The man’s nostrils flare, as if he likes what he sees, and the knots my stomach tied itself into unravel a bit.
I’m not expecting it when he glides a thumb over one puckered nipple, so the gasp that escapes me disappears into the air between us.
“This okay?”
My chin dips in a nod.
“Give me a name,” he demands softly, breathlessly, “and I’ll prove it doesn’t have to mean anything.”
“Aren’t I supposed to be teaching you how to touch me?”
“I thought you were showing me how to flirt.”
“Clearly, I’ve overestimated your need for assistance.”
The next words out of his mouth are gentle. Shy almost. “Have I done something wrong?”
“No,” I grumble, my back arching, seeking more from him in a way I find terrifying and overwhelming.
The loss of control is disconcerting. I want to lash out, shift the dynamic, but for some reason, the words die on my tongue.
He brings his free hand to the opposite breast, cupping me so firmly that my spine bows.
Introductions are messy and unnecessary when all you’re chasing is a little satisfaction. I know better than to get involved with anyone past a few short hours.
But it’s almost like he needs more. The way his eyes rove over my skin before his touch grazes me. Is he actually nervous?
I open my mouth to say we can stop or to give a fake name or insist he say his first, but instead, just one syllable comes out. “Elle.”
It’s almost a whisper, murmured as I bury my face in his neck.
His soft laughter brushes my hair. “See? That wasn’t so hard.”
“Easy for you to say.”
“Elle.”
Tension threads through my limbs. It sounds a lot different coming from him.
“You’re right,” he mutters. “That was very easy to say.”
Annoyed with everything, I sink my teeth gently into his jugular, earning a surprised grunt from deep in his chest.
He continues kneading and rolling, winding me up, but doesn’t move otherwise.
Almost like he isn’t sure what to do next.
For some reason, the hesitation is endearing. Sitting up, I meet his hungry stare. Something forlorn and needy unfurls in my chest. In my soul.
“Kiss me.”
His throat bobs. “Are you sure?”
“Learn by doing.”
“I know how to kiss,” he replies.
“Prove it.” I slide my hands along his jaw, threading the tips of my fingers behind his ears, and seal our mouths together.
The world tilts on its axis as our lips collide. Adrenaline and arousal shoot through my abdomen, setting me ablaze. My nipples scrape the fabric of his sweater as I lean forward, curling against him, and grind my hips downward.