Chapter 13
THIRTEEN
Josie
The ceiling has become my personal movie screen, playing back every humiliating moment from dinner on an endless loop. Four champagnes past my limit, and suddenly I'm announcing my sexual history to a table full of strangers while Elliot's face performed an impressive range of micro-expressions, each one screaming "abort mission" louder than the last. I can't sleep. Can't stop thinking about the heat in his eyes when I said "yet"—that tiny, loaded word hanging between us like a lit fuse.
I roll onto my side, facing the pillow barricade Elliot insisted on rebuilding between us despite last night's nightmare that had left us tangled together by morning. Barney is curled at the foot of the bed, having made peace with both of us as acceptable sleeping companions.
From the other side of Mount Cushion, I hear Elliot shift for the dozenth time. He's not sleeping either. The digital clock on the nightstand glows 2:17 AM in accusatory red digits.
"Elliot?" My voice sounds too loud in the darkness.
A pause, then, "Yes?"
"Are you awake?"
"Evidently."
Even now, he can't help being a smartass. "I can't sleep."
"You should try counting sheep. Or reviewing tax codes. I find Title 26 particularly soporific."
I sit up, peering over the pillow wall. In the dim moonlight filtering through the curtains, I can just make out his form. He's lying on his back, hands folded over his chest like a vampire in repose.
"Can we talk about what happened at dinner?"
"I'd rather not."
"I'm sorry if I embarrassed you," I say, the words coming out in a rush. "The champagne was really good and I wasn't keeping track and?—"
"You didn't embarrass me." His voice is tight, controlled. "Go to sleep, Josie."
I flop back onto my pillow with a frustrated sigh. "I can't."
More rustling from his side, then silence again. I stare at the ceiling, gather my courage, and make a decision that will either be the bravest or dumbest thing I've ever done.
I dismantle the pillow wall.
"What are you doing?" Elliot asks, his voice sharp with alarm as I toss the last cushion to the floor.
"Eliminating borders," I answer, scooting closer to his side of the bed. "They're not working anyway."
"Josie..."
"I meant what I said tonight," I whisper, my heart hammering so hard I'm sure he can hear it. "Not just about the mediocre sex—though that was unfortunately true—but about you. About us."
"There is no us," he says automatically, but he doesn't move away when I edge closer still. "This is a business arrangement."
"Is it?" I'm close enough now that I can feel the heat radiating from his body. "Because I don't think business arrangements usually involve kissing in canoes or sharing beds or the way you look at me when you think I don't notice."
"Proximity can create the illusion of?—"
"Oh my god, stop talking like a legal brief." I prop myself up on one elbow, looking down at him. His eyes are wide, alert in the darkness. "For once in your life, can you just admit what you want instead of what makes logical sense?"
"What I want is irrelevant."
"What if it's the only thing that matters?" I counter, my voice dropping lower. "What if, just for tonight, we stop pretending?"
His breathing changes, becoming shallower. "Pretending what, exactly?"
"That we don't want each other." The words hang between us, honest and terrifying. "That this is just about the money or the client or whatever excuses we've been making."
"Josie..." My name is half warning, half plea.
I gather every scrap of courage I possess and place my hand on his chest. His heart pounds beneath my palm, a rapid drumbeat that matches my own. "Tell me to stop, and I will."
He says nothing. His silence is answer enough.
Slowly, giving him every chance to pull away, I lean down and press my lips to his. Unlike our previous kisses—the practiced ones in his apartment, the desperate one in the canoe—this one is gentle. A question. An offering.
For one terrible moment, he remains perfectly still, and I fear I've catastrophically misread everything. Then his hand comes up to cup the back of my neck, and he kisses me back with an intensity that steals my breath.
There's no hesitation now, no pretense that this is for show. His tongue sweeps into my mouth, claiming me in a way that makes my spine melt. I shift without breaking the kiss, moving to straddle him, the thin material of my sleep shorts and his pajama pants doing little to disguise how much he wants this.
"We shouldn't," he murmurs against my lips, even as his hands slide under my t-shirt to span my waist.
"Probably not," I agree, rocking against him, drawing a hiss from between his clenched teeth. "Want me to stop?"
His answer is to flip us in one smooth motion, pinning me beneath him with a precision that makes me wonder where else that control might come in handy. "No," he says, his voice low and rough in a way I've never heard it. "Don't stop."
His mouth finds my neck, tracing a burning path from my ear to my collarbone that has me arching beneath him. When his teeth graze a particularly sensitive spot, I can't hold back a moan that seems to shatter something in him. His movements become more urgent, less calculated, his usual perfect control fraying at the edges.
"I've thought about this," he confesses against my skin, hands pushing my shirt up and over my head. "More than I should have."
"Me too," I admit, fumbling with the buttons of his pajama top, needing to feel his skin against mine. "Since that stupid practice kiss in your apartment."
He pulls back slightly, eyes searching mine in the darkness. "That long?"
"Don't look so smug." I finally get his shirt open, running my hands over the planes of his chest. "You're not exactly subtle when you stare at me."
"I don't stare," he protests, but the lie falls apart when his gaze drops to my now-bare breasts, his expression hungry and reverent all at once.
"You're staring right now," I point out, a breathless laugh escaping me.
"With good reason." His thumb brushes over my nipple, turning my laugh into a gasp. "You're beautiful."
The simple declaration, delivered with such unvarnished sincerity, hits me harder than any elaborate compliment. This isn't the smooth-talking lawyer or the controlled professional. This is just Elliot, looking at me like I'm something precious.
Our remaining clothes disappear in a frantic tangle of limbs and whispered curses when his pants get caught on his ankle. It should be awkward—we're essentially strangers playing at being lovers who are now actually becoming lovers—but somehow it's not. Each stumble and laugh only makes this more real, more us.
"Do you have protection?" he asks, ever the practical one even with his body hovering over mine.
"In my bag," I answer, then flush at his raised eyebrow. "Not because I planned this! I just…always keep some. Just in case."
"Just in case you found yourself in bed with your fake fiancé?" His smile is almost playful, a side of him I've rarely glimpsed.
"Just in case a hot, uptight lawyer hired me to pretend to be engaged to him and then couldn't keep his hands to himself," I counter, enjoying his soft laugh as he retrieves what we need.
When he returns to bed, something has shifted. The frantic edge remains, but there's a tenderness to his movements now, a deliberate care as he settles between my thighs. His fingers find me first, exploring with the same meticulous attention he brings to everything, learning what makes me squirm and gasp.
"Tell me what you like," he murmurs, watching my face as he touches me.
"That," I breathe as his fingers curl just right. "Exactly that."
He's a quick study, building me up with a focus that makes me wonder if he approached this like he approaches everything else—with thorough research and a determination to excel. The thought makes me giggle, which quickly transforms into a moan as his mouth replaces his fingers.
"Oh god," I manage, hands fisting in his hair. "Elliot..."
If I'd ever imagined Elliot Carrington would be good at this—and okay, maybe I had, once or twice—the reality exceeds every fantasy. He doesn't just pay attention; he's obsessive about it, adjusting to every response, every breath, every whispered plea. When I come apart against his mouth, it's with a shuddering intensity that leaves me breathless and boneless.
"Earth-shattering enough?" he asks as he moves back up my body, and I can hear the smirk in his voice.
"Shut up," I mutter, pulling him down for a kiss that tastes like me and him and something new we're creating together. "And also, yes."
The smirk transforms into something more vulnerable as I guide him where I need him most. He pauses, supporting his weight on his forearms, looking down at me with a question in his eyes.
"Please," I whisper, wrapping my legs around his waist. "I want this. I want you."
The moment he pushes inside me, I understand what I meant at dinner. This is different. Not just physically—though god, that too—but emotionally. This isn't just sex. This is connection, raw and unfiltered in a way I've never experienced.
We move together like we've done this a thousand times, finding a rhythm that builds and crests and rebuilds, higher each time. Elliot whispers my name against my neck like a prayer, all his usual composure stripped away, leaving just the man beneath all those layers of control.
"Look at me," he commands as I feel myself approaching the edge again. "I want to see you."
I open eyes I hadn't realized I'd closed, finding his gaze locked on mine with an intensity that would be frightening if it didn't match exactly what I'm feeling. This is beyond physical pleasure. This is seeing and being seen, all defenses down, nothing between us but heat and truth.
When I come undone this time, it's with his name on my lips and his eyes holding mine, a shared freefall that he follows me into moments later, his control finally, beautifully shattering.
We collapse together, breathing hard, limbs entangled and sweat cooling on our skin. For several minutes, neither of us speaks. The only sound in the room is our gradually slowing breath and Barney's soft snores from the foot of the bed, apparently undisturbed by our activities.
Elliot moves first, disappearing briefly to the bathroom before returning to slide back into bed beside me. Unlike before, there's no attempt to maintain distance, to rebuild walls. Instead, he pulls me against him, my head finding the perfect spot on his shoulder, his arm curving around me like it belongs there.
"We crossed a line," he says finally, his voice quiet in the darkness.
I trace idle patterns on his chest, feeling his heart still racing beneath my fingertips. "Yeah. And I'm not sorry."
His arm tightens around me. "You should be. This complicates everything."
"Maybe uncomplicated is overrated," I suggest, tilting my head to look up at him. "Maybe complicated is exactly what we both need."
He doesn't answer, but he doesn't pull away either. Instead, his fingers begin drawing lazy circles on my bare shoulder, a touch so gentle it makes my throat tight with unexpected emotion.
"Stop thinking so hard," I murmur, pressing a kiss to his chest. "Just for tonight. We can go back to pretending tomorrow if that's what you want."
"Is that what you want?" he asks, and beneath the careful neutrality, I hear a genuine question.
"No," I admit, too tired and too satisfied to maintain my own pretenses. "But I'll take what I can get."
He's quiet for so long I think he might have fallen asleep. Then he presses a kiss to my forehead that feels like a promise neither of us is ready to name.
"Sleep, Josie," he whispers, but this time it's not a dismissal. This time, wrapped in his arms with my body still humming from his touch, I do.