11. Elliot #2
I pull my shirt over my head. Watch her eyes trace the lines of my chest, my stomach, the trail of hair that disappears into my waistband. She reaches for me, and I let her, let her run her hands over my skin, let her explore.
“My turn,” I say, and reach for the hem of the t-shirt she’s wearing.
She lifts her arms, lets me pull it off. Underneath, she’s bare except for simple cotton underwear, and the sight of her steals my breath.
“Perfect,” I murmur. “Absolutely perfect.”
What follows is slow and thorough and nothing like anything I’ve experienced before. I learn every inch of her body. The places that make her gasp. The places that make her moan. The place at the base of her spine that makes her arch off the bed and cry out my name.
And when I finally sink into her, when she wraps around me like she was made for this, I feel something crack open in my chest. Something I’ve kept locked away for years, convinced I didn’t need it, convinced I was better off alone.
I was wrong.
I was so fucking wrong.
Afterward, we lie tangled together in the dark.
Her head rests on my chest, her fingers tracing idle patterns on my skin. I’m playing with her hair, winding the dark strands around my fingers, watching the moonlight paint shadows across her face.
“Elliot?”
“Hmm?”
“What happens now?”
I press a kiss to the top of her head. “Now we sleep. And tomorrow, we figure out the rest.”
“That’s not really an answer.”
“It’s the only answer I have.” I tilt her chin up so I can see her eyes. “I don’t know what this is, Cassie. I don’t know where it’s going. But I know I’m not ready for it to end.”
“Neither am I.”
“Then we take it one day at a time. See where it leads.”
She’s quiet for a moment. Then she nods.
“One day at a time,” she agrees. “I can do that.”
She settles back against my chest, and within minutes, her breathing evens out into sleep.
I lie awake longer, staring at the ceiling, thinking about everything that’s happened and everything still to come. Charles. Celine. The divorce. The inevitable fallout.
It’s going to be a war.
But for the first time in my life, I feel like I have something worth fighting for.
***
Cassie
I wake up to sunlight and an empty bed.
For a moment, I don’t remember where I am. The sheets are too soft, the mattress too large, the ceiling too high. Then it all comes flooding back, the confrontation with Celine, the kiss, the night that followed, and I sit up so fast my head spins.
Elliot’s bedroom. I’m in Elliot’s bedroom. In Elliot’s bed. Where we did things last night that make me blush just thinking about them.
The smell of coffee drifts up from downstairs.
I find one of his dress shirts in the closet and pull it on over my bare skin. It falls past my thighs, the sleeves hanging past my fingers, and I look ridiculous, but it also smells like him, so I don’t care.
I make my way downstairs on legs that aren’t quite steady.
He’s in the kitchen. Of course he is. Wearing suit pants and a white button-down with the sleeves rolled up, looking like he stepped out of a magazine advertisement.
His hair is still slightly damp from a shower, and when he sees me, his eyes track slowly down my body in his shirt before returning to my face.
“Morning.” His voice is rough.
“Morning.” I hover at the edge of the kitchen, suddenly awkward. What’s the protocol here? We slept together. We’re supposed to be fake dating. We’re both in the middle of divorces. Where does that leave us?
“Coffee’s ready.” He pours me a cup without asking how I take it. “How do you feel?”
“Sore.” The word comes out before I can stop it, and I feel heat flood my cheeks. “I mean.”
“I know what you mean.” His smile is slow and satisfied. “Good sore or bad sore?”
“Good sore.” I accept the mug, wrapping my hands around the warmth. “Very good sore.”
“Glad to hear it.” He leans against the counter, watching me over the rim of his own cup. “Any regrets?”
“About last night?”
“About any of it.”
I consider the question. Regret implies I wish I’d done something differently. That I’d taken another path, made another choice.
“No,” I say finally. “No regrets.”
“Good.” He sets down his coffee. “Because we have a lot to do today.”
“Like what?”
“Like getting you set up at the office.” He pulls out his phone, starts scrolling through something. “I need someone running client relations, and since you’re living here now, it makes sense for that someone to be you.”
“You want me to work for you?”
“I want you to work with me.” He looks up. “There’s a difference. And before you argue, think about it. You need a job. I need an assistant. You know the industry, you know the clients, you know how to make things run smoothly. It’s a natural fit.”
He’s right. I know he’s right. But accepting a job from the man I’m sleeping with, the man I’m supposedly fake-dating, the man who just helped me implode my entire previous life, it feels like a lot.
“People will talk,” I say.
“People are already talking. Might as well give them something good to talk about.”
“And if this” - I gesture between us - “doesn’t work out? What then?”
“Then we figure it out.” He sets down his phone. “Cassie, I’m not asking you to sign a lifetime contract. I’m asking you to come to work today, see how it feels. If you hate it, we’ll find you something else. If you love it, great. Either way, you have options.”
Options. When was the last time I felt like I had options?
“Okay,” I say. “I’ll try it.”
“Good.” He pushes off the counter. “Now go get dressed. We leave in an hour.”