19. Cassie #3
“That’s very-” I lose my train of thought as his hand slides up my thigh. “Very convenient.”
“I’m a very prepared man.” His fingers find the edge of my underwear. “And I’ve been wanting to do this all week.”
“We’re going to get caught.”
“Probably.” He doesn’t stop. “Do you want me to stop?”
The honest answer is no. The smart answer is yes. I give him neither and instead pull his mouth back to mine and kiss him like the descent isn’t nearly over. The floor indicator ticks down toward the lobby and we make the most of every second we have.
His tongue slides against mine, deep and slow at first, then turns urgent as his hands frame my face, tilting my head just right.
I grip his shirt, pulling him closer until our bodies press tight, chest to chest. His fingers thread into my hair, tugging lightly, while mine slide up his back, feeling the muscles flex under the fabric.
We break for air only to dive back in, lips parting, tongues tangling in a hungry rhythm that leaves me breathless.
Elliot’s mouth trails along my jaw, nipping softly before returning to claim my lips again.
I moan into the kiss, and he answers with one of his own, hands roaming down my sides to rest at my waist, pulling me even tighter against him.
My fingers trace the line of his collarbone, dipping under the open collar of his shirt to stroke warm skin.
We sway with the elevator’s motion but stay locked together, mouths moving in sync, exploring every angle, every taste.
“God, you taste good,” he murmurs against my lips before kissing me harder, his teeth grazing my bottom lip.
I respond by sucking on his tongue, drawing another low sound from him.
Our hands can’t stay still - mine cup his neck, thumbs stroking behind his ears while his palms slide up my back under my blouse, pressing flat and warm.
The kiss deepens again, slow and wet and endless, as the floors keep dropping.
I arch into him, feeling the heat of his body through our clothes, and he shifts to kiss the corner of my mouth, then my cheek, then back to my lips with renewed hunger.
We trade soft bites and long, slow licks, our breathing growing heavier, but neither of us pulls away.
His hands stay respectful yet possessive, stroking my sides and back, as I tangle my fingers in his hair, guiding the angle of our kisses.
The elevator dings.
We spring apart. Elliot smooths his hair. I adjust my skirt. By the time the doors open, we look almost respectable.
Almost.
The woman waiting to get on takes one look at us and smirks. It’s Miranda, of course, because Miranda sees everything.
“Mr. Beaumont,” she says. “Long ride?”
“Very productive,” he responds without missing a beat. “The elevator is all yours.”
We step out into the lobby, and the doors close behind us. I wait until we’re alone before bursting into laughter.
“She knew,” I manage. “She absolutely knew.”
“Miranda knows everything. It’s why she’s so valuable.” He takes my hand, threading his fingers through mine. “I stopped trying to hide things from her years ago. It’s easier to just accept that she’s omniscient and move on with my life.”
“Should I be worried about what she thinks of me?”
“She thinks you’re good for me.” He squeezes my fingers. “She told me last week that I’ve smiled more in the past month than in the entire eight years she’s worked for me. She said it was unsettling at first, but she’s getting used to it.”
“That’s either very sweet or very sad.”
“Both, probably.” He pushes open the front door. “Now, about that surprise I mentioned…”
We step out into the afternoon sunshine, and I’m so distracted by the warmth of his hand in mine, so caught up in the glow of what we just shared and the words we finally said, that I almost don’t notice her.
Almost.
“Elliot.” I stop walking, my hand tightening on his. “Across the street. Two o’clock.”
He follows my gaze, and I feel his body tense beside me, all the relaxed satisfaction draining away in an instant.
Celine is standing on the opposite sidewalk, leaning against a lamp post with practiced casualness.
She’s dressed better than the last time I saw her, in a clean sundress with her hair brushed and her makeup carefully applied.
She looks almost normal, almost sane, almost like the woman who walked into my life and destroyed it without a second thought.
Except for her eyes. Her eyes are fixed on us with an intensity that makes the hair on the back of my neck stand up.
She doesn’t approach. She doesn’t scream or cry or make a scene. She just stands there, watching us with an expression I can’t quite read. Something between triumph and anticipation, like a cat that’s cornered a mouse and is taking its time before the kill.
And then she lifts her hand and waves.
It’s the same wave she gave the security camera the day I turned the sprinklers on her. The same smug, knowing gesture. Like she’s privy to some secret that we haven’t figured out yet, like she’s several moves ahead in a game we didn’t know we were playing.
“What is she doing?” I murmur.
“I don’t know.” Elliot’s voice is tight, controlled. “But I don’t like it.”
We watch as Celine holds our gaze for another moment, her smile widening. Then she turns and walks away, disappearing around a corner without looking back.
“That was strange,” I say when she’s gone. “Why didn’t she confront us? She’s been so aggressive, so desperate every other time we’ve seen her. And now she just stands there and waves?”
“Or she wants us to think she is.” Elliot’s jaw tightens, then eases. “That was a woman with nothing left but a good exit. She wanted us to see her, wanted us to feel watched. It’s the only power she has now, Charles gone, the money gone, and she knows it.”
He guides me toward the car, and we pull away from the curb, leaving Celine standing alone on the sidewalk. I keep waiting to feel afraid. But a woman who has to stage her own menace on an empty street isn’t a threat. She’s just proof of what happens when you run out of moves.
Elliot’s phone buzzes with a text. He glances at it while we’re stopped at a red light, and his expression hardens into something cold and furious that I’ve never seen before.
“What is it?” I ask.
He hands me the phone without speaking.
The message is from a contact labeled “J. Parsons”: Heads up.
Word going around that Charles Wallace is telling everyone the divorce is going to RUIN his ex-wife.
Claims he has evidence she was stealing from the company, that she’s been conspiring with Beaumont to destroy his business.
He’s painting himself as the victim and her as the villain.
Thought you should know before it spreads further.
My blood turns to ice in my veins.
“He’s going to try to destroy my reputation,” I whisper. “Before I can do anything with the divorce, he’s going to make sure everyone thinks I’m the villain of this story.”
Elliot takes the phone back, his jaw tight. “He’s not going to succeed.”
“How can you be sure? He has connections. Money. People who will believe whatever he tells them because they’ve known him for years.”
“So do I.” Elliot’s voice is steel. “And unlike Charles, I don’t fight fair when someone threatens what’s mine.”
The light turns green, but the sunshine suddenly feels less warm. Charles isn’t just going to let me walk away with half of everything. He’s going to burn my reputation to the ground first, salt the earth so nothing good can grow in my life again.
The question is: what am I going to do about it?