Chapter Twenty-Nine #2
“I can’t wait,” he moaned into my mouth, pushing me up against the lift wall so he could grind his length against my core, sending sparks shooting through my entire body.
His hand moved inside my shirt, about to free my breast from the lace covering it when the lift door opened again and we tumbled out, kissing furiously.
I was vaguely aware of being half-carried, half-dragged up what seemed like a twisting little staircase – I was too busy loosening his belt – to what appeared to be a mezzanine sleeping area consisting of a huge bed, sumptuous with a thick white duvet.
He lowered me to the floor, where we wasted no time removing our clothes and I finally saw all of him.
“Elliot,” I breathed. He was perfect; there was no other word.
“Get on the bed,” he ordered hoarsely. “I need you now.”
Obediently, I lowered myself onto the bed and he watched my every move through hooded eyes, absently touching himself in a way that left me thrumming with want.
I stretched my arms over my head, smiling, thrilling at the way his jaw slackened.
And then his weight was on me, skin to skin.
I felt like I might explode if he didn’t fuck me.
He maneuvered himself, then halted. “Shall I get a condom?”
“If you want,” I said. “But I’m on the pill and I get tested regularly so—”
“Me too. Tested, that is.” His eyes became feral as he realized. “You okay with doing this without protection?”
By way of an answer, I twisted underneath his body, guided him between my legs. I wanted to feel all of him inside me, no barriers. “I’ve never done it like this before.”
His breath hitched. “Me neither.”
Our eyes locked. It felt like we were crossing some invisible line, a moment of import that had to be silently acknowledged.
And then he eased himself inside me, holding my gaze.
Oh fuck, oh God, it felt incredible. I was stretched, my body full of him, senses overwhelmed.
The weight of him, the silken heat of his skin sliding against mine and then he was moving, gentle at first, but then grinding, firmer, building up the pace.
His hand moved to my face, brushing my lips, and I took his thumb in my mouth, teasing the edge with my tongue.
“Lucie.” I could see Elliot’s battle for control weakening as he slid in and out of me.
“Hey,” I whispered. “Don’t hold back on me.”
“I’m worried I’ll hurt you.” His voice was guttural.
I knew one thing to be true. “You won’t.”
It could have been early morning; it was possibly still the dead of night. I wasn’t sure what time it was, but I was in Elliot’s bed, wrecked and aching in all the best ways. He was curled around me, dozing, when I was hit by a sudden urge to use the toilet.
I elbowed him. “Hey.”
“Give me a minute.” He rumbled into my hair.
“I need the loo.”
His eyes opened sleepily. “Loo,” he repeated, tightening his grip. “Fucking adorable.”
“It won’t be adorable when I wet your bed,” I said. “Where is it?”
He hooked a thumb, gesturing behind the bed. “Down there.”
I slid out from under his arm, found my shirt on the floor and pulled it on. The bedroom was indeed a mezzanine level of blond wood and minimal décor. I walked around the bed and down a little walkway, through a sliding door and fumbled with the lights.
“Holy fucking shit.” The need to wee temporarily forgotten, I took in the space.
The bathroom was enormous: a free-standing tub, a shower the size of my kitchen back in London and so much pristine white tile I had to blink.
I darted back out and looked down from the mezzanine across the rest of the apartment. “Elliot, why is your home so fancy?”
“I house-sit,” he rumbled from the depths of the bed.
“For who, a bloody prince?” Elliot’s apartment was a vast open space, all polished wood, exposed brick, white walls punctuated with vibrant art pieces, and heavy drapes covering enormous floor-to-ceiling windows.
A glossy kitchen took up one corner, alongside an expensively rough-hewn banquet table.
“Belongs to a friend from college.” Elliot emerged from the bed, clad in sweatpants and hair all over the place. “He lives in LA, so I get to crash here.”
“Is he posh? He’s posh, isn’t he?”
“Posh?” he repeated, his lips quirking. “I don’t know about posh.”
“It’s quite simple to work out,” I said. “Does he enjoy Rugby Union or League?”
He scratched the back of his head. “Say what now?”
“Never mind.” I laughed to myself. “Bet it’s Union.”
He ambled over, brushed my thoroughly shagged hair back off my face. “Have I ever told you how hot I find your Britishisms?”
“Up until recently I thought you found them irritating,” I said.
“For the last time, aubergines look like eggs when they’re on the plant,” he said, with a wry shake of his head.
“Don’t change the subject,” I ordered. “This place is amazing.”
“It is.” He nodded. “His family are super wealthy and he lived here while we were at NYU. Couple years ago, he got a job scoring movies in LA, so I agreed to look after the place.”
I smirked. “A real hardship.”
“The things I do for my friends,” he said with a sardonic grin.
“You’re a saint.”
His hand snaked possessively around my waist, kneaded my hip. “You hungry?”
My stomach rumbled in response. “Apparently.”
“I’ll make you something,” he said, dropping a kiss to my head. “Eggs?”
“Okay.”
After using the bathroom, I padded down the stairs to the kitchen, where Elliot made me scrambled eggs – shirtless – and it was possibly the hottest thing I’d ever seen, after his topless boxing, that is. As I sat at the kitchen island and sipped coffee, I saw the clock.
“Damn,” I said. “It’s almost three.”
Elliot snickered. “No wonder we’re hungry, we lost most of Saturday.”
“I’m not complaining,” I said.
“I need to tell you something.” He slid eggs onto a plate.
“Sounds ominous.”
“No, no,” he assured me. “Sherman quit yesterday.”
I remembered the argument I’d overheard at Silvercup. “The Janis Joplin scene?”
“Was the final straw,” he said with a nod. “And then … I got offered the Woodstock director role.”
“As you should be,” I said.
“You don’t seem totally surprised,” he remarked, pushing a plate of eggs on toast my way.
“Sadie may have mentioned that as a solution to the Sherman problem,” I admitted. “Congrats. I think it’s amazing.”
“It’s just for a couple weeks,” he said. “Mostly clean-ups and reshoots. But … it’s something.”
“It’s more than something!” I elbowed him. “It’s a huge show! Is RJ happy it’s resolved?”
Elliot’s face darkened. “Yeah? Maybe. I don’t know. We have a meeting Monday to talk through this new structure. The network is being amazing about it … but RJ’s gone quiet on me.”
I thought back to what Sadie had said, about the way RJ treated his staff. “He might just need to get used to it. I mean, you’re not so much his subordinate now as you are a peer. A director, like him.”
“Huh.” He sat on the stool next to me. “I never saw it like that.”
“You think his ego can handle it?” I asked.
He frowned. “I’m not sure.”
“Well, congratulations anyway.” I pushed a wayward lock of hair away from his face. “You deserve it.”
We ate in companiable silence for a few moments. The eggs were delicious, but I was so hungry I would have eaten anything.
“So,” Elliot said, wolfing back the last piece of toast. “Ralf quit, huh?”
“I know!” In all the mania of the last day, I’d completely forgotten. “And that’s not the maddest thing.” I told him what I’d witnessed between Ralf and Vivian.
“Okay, first of all, quite possibly the grossest thing I’ve heard in a long time.” Elliot shuddered theatrically. “I could have happily lived a lifetime without knowing any of this.”
“But what is he up to?” I mused. “They have some kind of scheme going on and clearly him quitting was part of it.”
“Lucie.” Elliot fixed me with a serious stare, but his mouth was quirking. “Ralf is a doer, okay? Not a dreamer.”
“I mean, yeah, he’s doing Vivian,” I shot back, and Elliot erupted into laughter.
“Look, I really don’t want to spend this weekend talking about that guy,” Elliot said, pushing our plates to one side.
“Oh no?” My heart thudded as he tugged my stool towards him.
“No.” His hand worked the buttons of my shirt so it loosened around my shoulders. “I have other plans for us.”
“Are you going to call me a good girl again?” I was begging, but I didn’t care.
He pulled me onto his lap, already hard. “Just you wait.”
We spent the rest of the weekend in his bed, venturing out late Sunday to find food as his cupboards were bare.
After greasy yet satisfying tacos from a hole-in-the-wall by Washington Market Park, we took a roundabout route back to his apartment via Little Italy, where we feasted on cannoli.
Elliot pointed out his favorite spots: a raucous pool hall that served the best in Japanese whiskies, an art-deco cinema run by a friend of his, and a tiny art gallery that specialized in experimental photography.
“There’s an introspective exhibition at the gallery coming up next month,” he said. “It sounds awesome – candid photos taken by of one of Hollywood’s busiest extras. We should—” He stopped, shook his head.
Regret burned a hole in my heart. Elliot had just been about to invite me to the exhibition, one that would only start after I’d left the country. “I’m sorry.”
“No, don’t be.”
“If I could stay, I would.”
“I know.” He brushed my knuckles with his lips, eyes sadly gazing into mine. “And I know why. Doesn’t mean I have to like it.”