Three
“I'll get the blankets, you Google how to have child-like fun.”
~Sheldon Cooper
The Big Bang Theory
Elliot anxiously tapped his fingers on the steering wheel as he waited for Nadia to return with her belongings. It was almost midnight and he still was processing how he’d gotten himself into this mess.
True, he didn’t like the image of her sleeping on some cot in an empty dance studio lacking all the habitable necessities a woman might need, but that didn’t make it his duty to fix her problems. Since when did he involve himself in other people’s drama?
Never. The answer was never. So why was he suddenly taking some homeless dance instructor back to his house? This bordered on every possible creepy stalker scenario out there and he was the pitiful culprit, justifying his motives as noble. Pathetic.
The door to the apartment complex opened and he sucked in a breath, doing his best to appear relaxed as she carried a large bag to the car. Wrenching open the door, she wedged her belongings behind the passenger seat, slid in beside him, and growled.
Her words, mumbled Hungarian, tickled his brain, but he couldn’t decipher a single phrase. He made a mental note to pick up a book on the language.
When she finished her foreign tirade, he glanced behind her seat. “Is that everything?”
“Yes,” she grumbled, crossing her arms over her chest.
Not one for translating female body language, he shifted gears and edged onto the road. He’d always heard women were heavy packers. Maybe that was a myth because she apparently lived with very few clothes. The apartment wasn’t in the nicest area, so hopefully, they wouldn’t have to return.
The ride to his house was made in silence. Her sour mood seemed to escalate as if her temper was actually heating the interior of his car. The closer they came to his home the higher his anxiety spiked. He should have offered to put her up in a hotel.
The idea of actually exposing his personal quarters to someone as complex as Nadia left him nauseous. What if seeing his private home disappointed her in some way or she found his house strange? Some people’s homes had a smell. Did his? He was starting to sweat.
The ingrained practice of hiding his vulnerabilities from the rest of world was something he mastered long ago.
The sense of exposure, even or especially to Nadia, formed a knot of dread inside his stomach so tight he suddenly recalled humiliating moments from childhood with painful clarity, embarrassing events he’d assumed were buried and forgotten. It wasn’t a welcome sense of nostalgia.
He turned the car toward the entrance of his property, pausing to key in a code at the gate. As they eased up the long, winding drive, his gaze bounced between her shadowed presence and the dark road.
Her scowl lifted as the house came into view. “Ez nem egy ház.”
“I don’t speak Hungarian.” He was definitely picking up a book tomorrow.
“This is not a house. This is a fortress.”
He cherished his privacy, which made his decision to let her into his home all the more startling. But it was definitely a house. Just a big one.
“The gate code’s three one four, but I ask that you keep that to yourself.” Once she left, he’d have to change it. Such a slight inconvenience, but it felt mammoth in his well-ordered world.
Still, an unfamiliar part of him wanted her there. He disliked this indecisive side of himself very much and wasn’t used to wavering, emotionally or otherwise. This was why women confused things.
Parking by the front steps he shut off the engine and they sat in utter silence. Her hands fidgeted in her lap, her soft fragrance overpowering the delicate leather scent of the upholstery.
“Are you sure about this, Elliot?”
Every time she enunciated the “T” in his name his body shivered.
Despite his reluctance to let anyone in, some definitively masochistic side of his psyche demanded he do this.
Perhaps it was some skewed sense of decency that insisted he help her, but more realistically it seemed a perverted chance to be near her—even if near was as close as they’d ever come. This was going to be torture.
“Yes, I’m sure.” He opened his door and she followed suit.
She gathered her bag and met him at the foot of the steps. He took the duffle from her, surprised by its light weight, and led the way to the door.
“The front entrance code is one five nine.”
His entire security database was programmed to the digits of pi, but she’d only need to know the gate, front door, and alarm.
No need to go into the many other codes protecting his belongings.
As he typed in the code, the door chirped and opened, flaying his composure and tempting him to rescind his invitation and escort her to a hotel.
The light blinked on the security panel and he quickly typed in the disarm code. “The alarm code is two six five.”
“Will you write the numbers down for me?”
“Yes.” Switching on a few lights, he drew in a stabilizing breath that barely steadied him at all. “I should let you know the house is under surveillance, not the bedrooms or bathrooms, of course, but all the common areas have cameras on them twenty-four-seven.”
She probably thought he was a pervert. You are.
“It’s just for security.”
“Why?”
He shrugged, not wanting to revisit the memories of having his home robbed while he hid in the pantry, terrified. That was a different house, but still. “I have a lot of valuables in the house. I’d rather be vigilant than sorry.”
She nodded and turned, taking in the expansive foyer. “Where do you sleep?”
“Upstairs. I’ll show you the guest rooms.” Hefting her bag in his arm, he led her up the staircase and paused at the first closed door. “This room’s private.”
No need to risk her judgment. Most grown men didn’t have an entire chamber dedicated to Legos. Building things with his hands helped him relax and some of his best ideas had been born in that room.
“This is my room.” He continued to walk, pointing out the purpose of each door. “Closet. Game room. Home theater. Arcade. Library. And this is a powder room.”
Her expression was unreadable, so he went on. “This is one of the guest rooms. You can take a look to see if it suits. There are four more.”
She stepped forward and eased open the door. He wasn’t much for frills, finding methodic practicality necessary in many cases. Whenever his work required attractive design schemes, he passed the ball to Ash or Hunter. If it was out of their league, they hired a specialist.
She didn’t appear enchanted or disheartened by the room’s dark color scheme. Though there was no label, he often referred to the room as The Penguin Suite—the villain, not the aquatic bird.
“This is very nice.”
“I’ll show you the others.” Leading her down the hall, he opened the door to The Riddler Suite. Deep green walls made the violet comforter pop.
“They’re all so nice. It’s like a hotel. Do you have guests often?”
Never. “Not really.” He opened the door across the hall and showed her The Joker suite. Bright teal drapes contrasted the damask mauve wallpaper. The bedding and shams were done in green and orange to match the Joker’s vest and ascot.
“How do you pick your colors? They’re so vibrant.”
His neck heated. She probably thought his taste was abysmal. “I, uh, base them on characters from comics.”
“Like Garfield?”
“Not quite.” He shut the door, wanting this painful experience over. “The last guest room’s at the end of the hall.”
Opening the door to the Poison Ivy suite, he hoped she chose this one. It was more feminine than the rest, and he found it easy to imagine her lying on the emerald duvet embroidered with tiny silk vines. The walls were deep ruby, providing an almost sensual atmosphere.
“Oh, Elliot… It’s lovely.” She pivoted, a slow smile forming at her lush mouth. “I may pick?”
He swallowed tightly, under her spell once more. “Of course.”
“I choose this one.” She stepped to the bed and collapsed to her back.
His gaze fastened to the flash of soft flesh showing at her thigh where her skirt had risen. His stare zeroed in, lingered, and slowly traveled over her crimson dress, and up her hips, pausing again where her breasts jutted upward. He needed to get out of there.
Dropping her bag to the settee at the foot of the bed, he back stepped to the door. “So you have everything you need? The bathroom’s through that door. There are linens in the closet—”
“Elliot?”
Glancing over his shoulder, he found her resting on one elbow, her body curving with feline grace. His brain short-circuited as his breath seized.
Her smile was all too trusting. “Thank you for letting me come here. I promise I’ll be gone soon.”
“Take as long as you need,” he rasped, betraying every insecurity raging inside of him. “You’re my guest.”
Crossing the threshold before she noticed the mountain of rock hard cock jutting below his belt, he shut the door behind him and blew out a rigid breath. This was definitely not how he expected his evening to end.
He went to his room, and as soon as the door shut he adjusted himself. “Unacceptable,” he muttered, trying to disguise the unrelenting bulge in his pants.
Growing frustrated, he removed his glasses and crimped his brow in a hard grip. “Get a hold of yourself.”
But there was no hope. Every time his eyes shut, glimpses of Nadia stretched across his guestroom bed flashed in his mind. He marched into the master bath. Five minutes later he was only slightly relieved—and hard again.
“Damn it!”
His flesh and blood fantasy was down the hall, and if he didn’t get a grip, he’d be walking around with a hard on until she left. He grit his teeth and marched back to the bathroom for a second demeaning attempt.
This was exactly why women and the feelings they produced were tedious.