Chapter 24 Eliana
ELIANA
proof·ing: /?proofiNG/: verb
My first-ever kiss was with a boy named Ricky Bowen, behind the bleachers in seventh grade gym class. He kissed with a little too much tongue and a hell of a lot too much Axe body spray, then told me to tell my friend Cassie that he thought she was cute. He ran off and I never talked to him again.
Cliché of clichés, I know.
This one is a cliché, too.
But in a very different kind of way.
This kiss with Bastian is a cliché first and foremost in the sense that it absolutely should not be happening, and that’s precisely why I want it never to end.
He’s my boss. He’s an asshole. He’s a megalomaniacal control freak with a shady past and a ladies’ man reputation. He’s too good-looking for me to believe that he’s going to do anything but kiss me and run off and never talk to me again.
However, unlike Ricky Bowen, Bastian kisses with exactly the right amount of tongue and exactly the right amount of body spray, which is fortunately not made by Axe.
He smells like wintergreen gum and his tongue parts my lips gently but firmly, like he doesn’t want to be aggressive but he has no intention of sticking around to see if I change my mind about this.
His hand is still cupping the back of my neck. It’s as huge as ever, and just as warm. All of him is just as warm, actually. In the confines of this cramped, blacked-out elevator stuck halfway between heaven and hell, that heat feels like it’s been cranked up to a blazing inferno.
I’m sweating and delirious as he drags me onto his lap. The hand that’s not on my neck has found its way to my hip. The motion of our tangled limbs was just enough to pull my torn blouse out of its neat French tuck, so there’s a sliver of skin at my waist there for Bastian’s free hand to caress.
His lips are softer than I would’ve guessed for a guy who only ever says rude things. I’d have thought a mouth like his would feel rough and jagged. Maybe fanged, if I’m onto something with the vampire accusations.
But it’s not. It’s soft and velvety, and yet still solid, a contradiction that makes no sense but is true anyway.
The broad plane of his chest feels like it goes on forever as he tugs me closer to him.
The hard peaks of my nipples stab through the sheer fabric of my blouse and my flimsy, decade-old bra.
If he’s not careful, he’ll lose an eye to them.
He is careful, though. His hand cupping the back of my head is careful and the flicker of his tongue warring with mine, a tease of press-and-retreat, press-and-retreat—that’s careful, too.
He’s so careful and so tender that I don’t know whether to cry, or to rip away and tell him that I’m not made of sugar and spice and everything nice, and that if he wanted to get a little bit rougher with it, well, he won’t catch me complaining.
When he tilts his head to change the angle and deepen the kiss, the stubble of his beard rakes over my cheek.
Something about that feeling, his roughness against my softness, is so masculine and erotic that a huge shiver rips through me out of nowhere, almost like an orgasm in its heat and intensity.
It surges down to my toes, rebounds from there back up, and escapes from my mouth through the tiny space left for breathing in the form of a moan.
The moan is gasoline on a fire. Like he’d been waiting for that, some sign to do more, Bastian’s hand on my hip slides up to mold against my ribs. My heart is thundering against it. I wonder if he can feel how hard it’s beating. Or how my skin is damp and sweaty.
If he notices. If he minds.
I wonder what he feels like, too. So, seizing a chance I’ll probably never get again, I comb one hand through the curly mane at the back of his head and rest the other against his bicep.
That feeling of thick, curly hair between my fingers and a huge, hot, firm arm against my palm is just so indefinably male that I moan again.
I feel tiny in his lap like this. Utterly breakable in the best way possible.
The ants from this morning are back again, but they’re not angry or anxious this time.
On the contrary, now, they’re tittering with glee as they run skittering across my scalp, down my spine, in scattered patterns between my thighs where the friction of Bastian’s leg is just begging me to grind up against it.
I’ve had sex before. It wasn’t with Ricky Bowen, fortunately. It also wasn’t good and it wasn’t memorable. But it did technically meet the “Tab A in Slot B” requirements that mean my V-card has been set aflame.
This, though, feels like the beginning of a whole different thing. The lead-up to losing my virginity had none of this moany, groany anticipation, where every touch sets off fireworks in places that are nowhere near erogenous.
Bastian rubbing my ribs shouldn’t be sexy, but it is.
Bastian cupping the back of my head shouldn’t be sexy, but it is.
Bastian using one thumb to tilt my chin up so he can kiss me better, the way he wants, Bastian rearranging my limbs so I can straddle his knee, Bastian rumbling his version of a moan low in his chest, something I feel as much as I hear—
Well, okay, yes, I could see how that could all be objectively described as sexy. Point is, he elevates it to a whole ‘nother level.
It’s brainwashing, pure and simple. Little by little, I can feel myself leaving my body, abandoning all the snark and pessimism that gets me through most days. It’s a kiss that sets me free from myself. It’s a kiss that makes me believe in a higher power.
That’s probably why, like all good things in my life, it ends before it can really get started.
Just as Bastian’s fingers find the edge of my bra cup and start to perhaps consider dipping inside, to where my nipples are hard and aching…
… the lights come on.
The fluorescent lights flicker to life with all the subtlety of a flash grenade. Bastian and I spring apart like we’ve been electrocuted.
In a way, I guess we have been.
My ass hits the elevator floor with an undignified thump. Bastian scrambles backward until his shoulders collide with the opposite wall. We stare at each other across the three feet of space that might as well be the Grand Canyon, both of us breathing hard.
I take a mental Polaroid. His hair is a disaster. I did that. His lips are swollen and red. I did that, too. His shirt is untucked on one side, and there’s a wrinkle across his chest where my hand was gripping the fabric.
All me.
Meanwhile, I’m pretty sure I look like I’ve been punted down a wind tunnel.
My blouse is still ripped open at the collar, courtesy of Bastian’s unorthodox CPR, and my bra strap has slipped down my shoulder.
It’s somewhat south of the dignified look I was going for when choosing my outfit this morning.
The elevator gives a cheerful, nonchalant ding, as if it didn’t just trap us in the dark long enough for us to completely lose our minds.
Then it starts moving.
Down.
Toward the lobby.
Where, presumably, there will be people.
People—witnesses—who will absolutely notice that Bastian Hale and his project manager look like they’ve been doing… exactly what they’ve been doing.
“Fuck,” Bastian breathes.
“Yeah,” I agree. “‘Fuck,’ indeed.”
We both lunge into action simultaneously. I yank my blouse closed over my exposed bra, holding the torn fabric together with one hand while frantically smoothing my hair with the other.
Bastian is doing his own version of damage control—tucking in his shirt, running fingers through his hair in a futile attempt to tame the chaos I created.
“Your lipstick,” he says, gesturing at his own mouth.
“I’m not wearing lipstick.”
“Oh.” He swipes at his lips anyway. “Well, you should probably—” He makes another circular motion around his face.
“What does that mean?”
“You look like you’ve been—” He stops. Clears his throat. “Disheveled.”
“I’d say you’re at least partially to blame.”
“You were hyperventilating.”
“So your solution was to strip me?!”
The elevator continues its happy little descent. Tenth floor. Ninth floor.
“Your hair,” I tell him.
He rakes his fingers through it again. “Better?”
“Worse, actually. You look like you stuck your finger in an electrical socket.”
“Fantastic.” He tries again, this time slicking it back. The result is somehow even more obvious—now, he looks like he’s been making out in an elevator, but trying to hide it.
Fifth floor. Fourth floor.
“Okay, new plan,” I say, my brain finally kicking into gear. “We pretend nothing happened.”
Bastian lets out a sharp laugh. “Nothing happened? Eliana, I had my tongue in your mouth thirty seconds ago.”
Heat floods my cheeks. “I’m aware. I was there.”
“Then you know we can’t just pretend—”
“Watch me.” I square my shoulders, channeling every ounce of fake confidence I’ve ever possessed. “We got stuck in an elevator. The lights went out. It was scary. We’re both a little shaken up. End of story.”
“Your shirt is torn.”
“Because I was hot.”
“And you have goosebumps.”
“Well, then I got cold.”
“That quickly?”
“It’s a—I dunno, a medical condition!”
“What medical condition?”
“I don’t know that, either! Pretend I haven’t diagnosed it yet! The point is—”
We’ll never find out what the point is, because just then, the elevator dings one final time.
Ground floor.
We both freeze as the doors begin to slide open.
Through the widening gap, I can see the lobby. The marble floors. The reception desk. And approximately fifteen people milling around, including—oh, God—Patricia.
Bastian’s assistant takes one look at us and her eyebrows climb toward her hairline. “Mr. Hale,” she says slowly. “Ms. Hunter. Are you both alright?”
“Fine,” Bastian and I say in unison, which is probably the least convincing thing either of us has ever said.
Patricia’s gaze travels from Bastian’s disaster hair to my raggedy shirt. A small smile plays at the corner of her mouth. “Are you sure?”
“The elevator malfunctioned,” Bastian explains gruffly.
“How terrifying,” Patricia says, in a tone that suggests she finds it anything but.
“It was fine,” I chime in. “Just a minor inconvenience.”
“Is that why your shirt is torn?”
I look down. Despite my hands folded over my chest, a scrap of ripped fabric is clearly visible. “I, uh, caught it on something.”
“In the elevator.”
“Yes. In the elevator. There was a… sharp edge. Very sharp. Quite dangerous, really. Someone should file a complaint.”
Patricia nods slowly. “I’ll make sure maintenance is notified.”
“Great. Wonderful. Thank you.” My voice dies out and, gee, it sure would be nice if someone else could fill in this nauseating silence, please and thank you.
Bastian clears his throat. “We should go. To our… appointment.”
“Yes,” I agree with way too much enthusiasm. “Absolutely. Going now.”
We step through the lobby with casual nonchalance. I’m sure we look guilty as hell.
I keep my hand plastered over the torn fabric of my blouse as we cross the lobby.
Behind the reception desk, I can feel Security Guard Kyle’s eyes boring into my back.
He’s a nice guy, but I’d bet dollars to donuts that he’s gonna start fertilizing the gossip grapevine the millisecond we leave the building.
I can’t even blame him. I’d do the same if I was in his shoes.
The automatic doors can’t open fast enough. When we finally burst through into the frigid February air, I suck in a breath so deep it makes my lungs ache.
“My car’s in the garage,” Bastian says without looking at me.
“Lead the way.”
We walk in silence through the underground parking structure. Our footsteps echo endlessly.
Bastian’s Range Rover chirps as he unlocks it. I reach for the passenger door handle at the same moment he does. Our fingers brush.
We both jerk back.
“Sorry,” I mutter.
“It’s fine.”
He finishes opening the door for me. I slide into the leather seat and do my best to remember how breathing works. Is it inhale, then exhale? I think I’m on the right track, but I can’t be sure.
My lips are still buzzing, swollen, and tender. I touch a finger to them like I need the reminder that what just happened did indeed actually happen.
He climbs into the driver’s seat and starts the engine without a word. But he doesn’t pull out yet. We just sit there, the Range Rover idling, heat slowly beginning to seep from the vents.
“So,” I say at last, because one of us has to.
“So.”
“Should we—”
Sudden motion from him clamps my mouth shut. But he’s just twisting in his seat to reach into the back. He finds something there, pulls it up, and offers it to me.
“Your jacket?” I ask in confusion.
“It’s a company pullover. Won’t look like a walk of shame outfit, and it beats flashing your chest to Frank and the rest of the construction crew.”
He’s got a point. Even though I know it’s a terrible idea to accept an article of clothing from him, I take it and pull it on. The sleeves go about a foot past my fingertips, but I do my best to roll them up and make it look halfway presentable.
When I’ve done the best I can, I clear my throat, feeling fuzzy-headed and stupid. “Are we gonna talk about—?”
“We should get to the site.” Bastian’s hands grip the steering wheel at ten and two, like he’s taking a driver’s test. “Frank’s waiting.”
“Basti—”
“Eliana.” He doesn’t look at me. “I don’t know what to say right now. I don’t—” He stops, jaw working side to side. “I need to think.”
“Okay.” I swallow hard. “But we can’t just pretend it didn’t happen.”
“I’m not suggesting we pretend anything,” he replies hoarsely. “I’m suggesting we table this conversation until after we’ve dealt with the two-hundred-thousand-dollar HVAC disaster that’s currently threatening to derail the entire project on which both of our lives depend.”
He’s not wrong. As much as I want to dissect every second of what just happened in that elevator—and oh, boy, do I want to dissect it—we still have jobs to do. Jobs that, technically speaking, are the entire reason we were in that elevator in the first place.
Jobs that have nothing to do with trying to climb inside each other’s mouths.
“Fine,” I agree. “Work first. Existential crisis later.”
“That’s the spirit.” He shifts the Range Rover into reverse, and I catch the ghost of a smile on his face before he schools his expression back to neutral.
As we pull out of the garage into the weak February sunlight, I sneak a glance at him. His hair is still a disaster, and there’s a faint pink mark on his neck that might have been my doing. Oops.
I turn to look out my window, pressing my fingers to my lips one more time. They’re still tender.
And the ants in my pants are more alive than ever.