WE SETTLE THIS. ONCE AND FOR
ALL.
RUE
My idea of a fun Friday night tended to include skating, or
Tisha, or sleeping, and while I wasn’t delighted to be accompanying Florence to an event that was unlikely to have any of
those, the party came with one saving grace: the attire was formal, and I always welcomed a chance to dress up.
Large social gatherings full of people I wasn’t familiar with were gas giants yielding infinite supplies of nightmare fuel, but at least I got to dig into my closet and show off my cat-eye routine—trained by the incessant pipetting, my lines were straighter than a bubble level. As in awe as I was of Tish’s habit of showing up to the lab with Met Gala–like sophistication, I didn’t have it in me to make that kind of effort on a daily basis, and never before 11:00 a.m. When I met up with men from the apps, I rarely bothered with makeup or nice outfits, aware the clothes would come off soon enough, and that nobody wanted my face goop smeared on their skin. It meant that most of my fancy dresses were beloved but unworn, and they’d only get a chance to come out for Tisha’s wedding—because she was the kind of person who’d require three engagement parties and a handful of
rehearsal dinners, but couldn’t be bothered to tell her maid of honor what to wear.
And for parties like tonight’s.
“You look beautiful,” Florence told me when I slid in the back of the Lyft, fingering the shimmery fabric of my green cocktail dress—which had pockets.
“So do you. It feels like there should be some chromatic reason for gingers to look bad in pink, but that’s not true at all.”
She laughed. “This is why you’re a better date than my ex.” “Because I tell you that you defy color theory?”
“That, and you’re hopefully not sleeping with my accountant.”
When I first met Florence, she’d been married to a guy named Brock who worked some bank-related job, had been her childhood sweetheart, and, according to Tisha, was “a total silver fox thirst trap.” Privately, I’d always considered him a giant bag of dicks unworthy of scraping grime off the grout lines in a public restroom. I’d hated his brash, car-salesman humor, how he’d presumed to tell Florence how to run Kline, and the way he looked at my chest and Tisha’s legs whenever Florence would have us over, like we were pieces of meat, little more than chicken wings delivered to his doorstep for his pleasure. I’d been relieved when they’d divorced, because Florence deserved better than him.
Then again, I was always a little too protective when it came to my friends, maybe because I had so few of them. Like in eleventh grade, when Cory Hasselblad had cheated on Tisha because she wouldn’t sleep with him and I’d sprayed a bottle of Heinz ketchup through the grates of his locker. Or in college, when I’d filled two Hefty bags with my roommate’s ex’s belongings after she’d caught him stealing money from her. My very few friends were the best people I knew, and I was ready to cut a bitch. Or, on one memorable occasion, a tire.
“Are you interested in doing that again?” I asked Florence. The AC in the car struggled against the summer heat. The sun would set soon, providing no respite, and yet downtown Austin had been buzzing for hours. I had no idea where we were headed, just that it’d be swanky.
“What? Sleeping with my accountant?” “Dating. Maybe get married again?”
She laughed. “After all I went through to get rid of Brock? No, thanks. If I get lonely, I’ll adopt a cat, like Tisha. Is that who she’s with tonight?”
“I believe she’s with Diego, the tech bro. But Bruce might be tagging along.”
“I’m sure things will get wild.” She gave me a sideways look. “What about you? Are you going to start dating again?”
A flash of Eli Killgore flooded my brain, and I swiped it away with the vehemence it deserved. “Technically . . .”
“Technically, it wouldn’t be again, because you’ve never actually dated
?”
“Correct.” I shrugged as the car slowed down. Not only was interacting
with others a challenge for me, but the feeling was mutual.
Why are you always so quiet?
If you smiled more, people would think you like them, and then they’d actually want to spend time with you.
I wish I was as cold as you. I love that you just don’t care about stuff.
I’d been an odd child, then an odd teenager. Then I’d become, maybe as a result, maybe unavoidably, an odd adult. Tisha had been easy—Want to jump rope with me? she asked in first grade, and the rest smoothly unfolded
—but as grateful as I was for my best friend, she was also a constant reminder of what I could never be. Tisha was smart, outgoing, quirky, imperfect in a way that was universally considered fun. I was weird. Cringe. Too awkward or too withdrawn. Off-putting. There had been whispers, snickering, and a conspicuous lack of invites by the same crowds that adored my best friend. Tisha had never chosen others over me, and she never hesitated to tell those who were openly rude to me to piss off. But we both knew the truth: people were inexplicably, neverendingly difficult for me. So while Tisha had boyfriends, friends, high grades, a promising future, I was busy with figure skating and faint hopes of getting the hell out of Texas, soon.
But then I had gotten out. And while being with humans hadn’t been any easier in college, I’d realized that there was one type of social interaction I could rock. I may struggle to keep the conversation flowing, or fail at exuding the kind of warmth that made others want to be in my orbit, but some people did approach me. Men, for the most part, with something very specific in mind, something I discovered I found highly enjoyable myself. I didn’t mind if they wanted to use my body, not if I got to use theirs back.
Only fair, I thought.
As college morphed into grad school and grad school bled into internships, meeting new people organically became harder. On top of that, lots of men my age seemed to be looking for something more. Shortly after joining Kline, I had some fairly mediocre sex with another team leader at the company, and was confused when he emailed the following day, asking me out for dinner.
I must have gotten better at hiding the way I am, I thought. I briefly let myself imagine saying yes, and the scenarios rolled through my head like a movie. Me, frantically trying to keep up the pretense of being an appealing, easygoing person and not just dozens of neuroses in a lab coat. The dismay I’d feel when my ability to fake it finally reached the end of its rope. His disappointment after my mask slipped, showing how socially inept and messed up I was. The potential for hurt was bottomless, and I didn’t even like the guy.
Sticking to the apps and avoiding repeats seemed like the better course of action.
“Is this the place?” I asked Florence when the Lyft came to a stop outside of a manor-like building.
“Yeah. We won’t stay long, just an appearance. But he has an ego and would notice if I didn’t show up.”
“There’s nowhere else I need to be. I’ll find a nice corner and wait for you.”
Florence squeezed my hand over the leather seats. “You take such good care of me.”
“You do the same.”
I’d never been to this part of Lake Austin, but I recognized the name of the club from some of the charity drives Mom would take us to as kids, to stock up on hand-me-downs and school supplies. It was the sort of fancy place frequented by people who loved prenups and air-kisses, where folks like me should set foot only on select, philanthropy-themed occasions. I spotted an easel at the entrance, and on top of a picture that could have been the stock photo for an investment banker, the words Happy Retirement, Eric in handwritten calligraphy. Florence signed the guest book, but I gave it as wide a berth as I could.
The crowded reception area was full of suits and evening gowns. A small band was preparing to play, and waiters weaved through the crowd,
carrying large trays of drinks and appetizers. My stomach clenched at the idea of eating anything among these people.
“There is Eric,” Florence said, pointing at where the stock photo held court. “I’ll introduce you. He’ll say, ‘You’re too young and beautiful to be in a lab all day,’ or some shit—sorry in advance.”
He didn’t say that. But he did tell me that if he’d “known engineers came in this pretty shape,” maybe he “would have switched majors.” Because I loved Florence, and Kline, I smiled amiably down at him, and didn’t mention that I’d have reported him for sexual harassment without hesitating. In my high heels I brushed six feet and relished his obvious discomfort when he had to crane his neck to utter his crap.
While he and Florence chatted, I glanced around, trying to be discreet in my boredom. Then Sommers’s tone switched to delighted surprise. “Ah— you came! Look at you!”
I turned to find Conor Harkness, and my heart sank. “No, sir.” His smile was all charm. “Look at you.”
He had a slight accent—Irish, according to Tisha, who’d spent a summer in Dublin for a research fellowship. My first impression of him had been of someone a few years older than Eli, but now that I studied him up close, I could tell that he was just prematurely graying. He had a magnetic presence, something I could tell even without being a victim of its pull. Men and women around us turned to glance at him, eyes lingering, and he seemed accustomed to having that kind of effect.
He and Sommers hugged like father and son, which they could easily have been, given the “white man with money who summers in New England” energy they both exuded. “Ladies, this is Conor Harkness, a dear family friend of mine.” Sommers grinned as he made introductions. “So glad you made it, Conor. Do you know Florence Kline, and . . .” He stared blankly at me, my name forgotten.
I did not come to his aid. Come on, Eric. I thought we had a thing. “Um, was it Rose . . . ?”
“Rue,” a deep, familiar voice said from beside Harkness. “Dr. Rue Siebert.”
My lungs turned into concrete.
“Ah, perfect.” Sommers rubbed his hands. “I see you all know each other.”
“You might be the odd man out, sir. Have you met Eli Killgore? He’s a partner at Harkness.”
He was here. Standing right here.
“I have not—nice to meet you, son. Do you happen to play golf ?”
“I’m more the hockey type,” Eli said affably, southern accent on broad display. In the soft lights, his eyes seemed as dark as my own. I couldn’t tear my gaze away.
“Well, you look it.” Sommers admiringly took in his shoulders, broad in the three-piece suit. “I grew up in Wisconsin, and used to play, too. Then, of course, I got old.”
“I feel you. Used to get in the most vicious fights on the ice and go back to the rink the next day—then I hit thirty, and now my back hurts before I even get out of bed.”
Sommers’s laugh was genuine. Conor Harkness was smooth and powerful, cutthroat in a sophisticated way that was clearly meant to appeal to Sommers’s rich side. Eli, on the other hand, was a man’s man. An outwardly simple, nice guy who used power tools and rescued kittens from burning houses and knew statistics about the NFL draft. Appealing for a whole other set of reasons.
I suspected they’d been perfecting the routine for years. In fact, I was ready to bet my patent on it.
“This is going to hurt,” Harkness said, suddenly serious, “but Eli played for St. Cloud.”
“Huskies.” Sommers shook his head. “I’m a Fighting Hawk myself.” Eli nodded thoughtfully. “Sir, I think this conversation is over.”
Sommers laughed again, delighted. “Tell you what, son, hockey sticks and golf clubs ain’t that different. How about this Sunday I teach you a few moves?”
Eli’s tongue roamed the inside of his cheek as he pretended to consider it. “Can’t be seen walkin’ away from a fight with a Hawk, can I?”
“Damn well you can’t.”
It was the kind of easy interaction that had me feeling superfluous and out of place, like I’d accidentally wandered into the men’s locker room. Same old boys’ club, now in Technicolor. Beside me, Florence was forgotten. I’d never even existed.
“Conor, I need to introduce you to my wife. I told you we stayed at your father’s resort when we went to Ireland, right? We had dinner with him and
his wife a couple of times.”
“Oh, if she had two dinners with Da, I absolutely need to give her my deepest apologies.”
It didn’t sound like a joke to me, but Sommers chortled. Florence emanated gory, murderous energy. “Florence, you haven’t met my better half, either, have you?”
“Not yet, no,” she said sweetly. Ready to snap.
“Come on, then, or I’ll be in the doghouse. I was just telling her about Kline the other day . . .”
They drifted away while Sommers rambled on, unaware of the strife in his unlikely trio, and after an everlasting, stretching moment, it was just the two of us.
Eli and me. Alone in a room full of people.
The charcoal three-piece suit fit him aggressively well, and not just because of the tailoring. There was something about the straight line of his nose, the curl in his hair, the slant of his brow, that matched and enhanced this kind of attire. Somehow, he was as comfortable in this environment as he’d been in my lab.
I simply did not understand this man.
He stepped closer, eyes looking right into mine. “Well,” he said, in his deep, calm voice, and I didn’t reply, because—what was there to say?
Well.
Did you go to college on an athletic scholarship? I wish I’d never messaged you on that damn app.
Dressed this way, you look different. Less like my Eli, and more like the kind of person who—
My Eli. What the hell was I thinking? “What are you doing here?” I asked.
He sighed. A waiter stopped to offer us glasses of . . . something. Eli took one, held it out to me, and then drank it in a single swig when I shook my head. “Same thing you and your boss are doing.”
Schmoozing a Kline board member. Fantastic. “Did you know we’d be here?”
His mouth twitched. “Despite your impression of me, I don’t know everything.” His eyes slid down my body, following the shimmery flares in the green fabric. They seemed to remember themselves halfway through, and abruptly skittered back to my face.
We couldn’t just stay here, in the middle of a crowded room. Staring in silence. “Are you really going to play golf with him?” I asked.
“Probably. Unless the Virgin Mary appears to Florence in a fever dream and orders her to turn over the documents we need.”
“I believe she’s an atheist.”
“Golf it is, then. Or do you want to talk her into it?” “Me?”
“Why not, if Kline has nothing to hide?” I snorted softly. “Why would I?”
“To spare me from the dumbest fucking sport in the universe?” I smiled. Then my amusement darkened. “He’s disgusting.”
“Who?”
“Sommers.”
“Yeah. Most men who are his age and wield his power are.” “Doesn’t give him a pass.”
“No,” Eli agreed, with the tone of a choir who wasn’t sure why they were being preached at. “Believe me, I want to see them crash and burn just as much as you do.”
“Sure you’re not one of them?”
Emotions passed on his face, all too fast to decipher. Then he started, unhurried: “My mother had a beautiful silver ring, one of those priceless heirloom pieces passed down for more generations than I could count. All the women in my family, that kind of stuff. When Mom died, I took the ring and set it aside, thinking I’d give it to my sister when she was old enough. But then, a little while later, she really, really wanted to go on a trip with her friends, and
I—I just didn’t have the money to send her, you know? So I told myself, easy fix. I’ll pawn the ring, and then repay the loan on time.” His smile was mournful. I didn’t need him to spell out the ending for me. “A few months later, she brought the ring up. Asked me if I knew where it was. And I pretended to have no idea what she was referring to.”
I looked at his open, unflinching eyes, and wished I could ask, How old were you? and How did your mother die? and Why do you keep doing this, baring the worst, most vulnerable and squishy parts of yourself to me? Instead, what I did was bare something of mine. Something dreadful. “When I was eleven, I stole thirty-four dollars and fifty cents from a drawer in my best friend’s house.” I forced myself to hold Eli’s gaze through the
shame of it, just like he’d held mine. “They never locked anything when I was around, because they trusted me. They treated me as their own. And I stole from them.”
He nodded, and I nodded, a tacit agreement that we were both terrible people. Telling terrible stories. We’d let our masks slip enough times that they now lay shattered on the floor, but it was okay.
We were okay.
Then the band began playing, and the understanding between us snapped. Eli returned to his amiable default setting as the notes purred softly, shaped into something soothing and smooth that perfectly matched the blandness of the gathering. Several couples began swaying.
“We should dance,” Eli offered. There were no tells that he was joking. “Should we? Why?”
He shrugged, and abruptly he seemed lost, as uneven as I always felt in his company. “Because I like your dress,” he said, non-sensically. It occurred to me, for the first time since our meeting three nights ago, that maybe he didn’t want this, either. Maybe he, too, was desperately fighting off this inexplicable attraction between us. Maybe his success was just as abysmal as mine. “Because I like you. As a person.” His eyes were teasing all of a sudden. Warm. “Even if you don’t like me.”
“You don’t know me,” I pointed out.
“No.” He offered his hand. I want to touch you, though, that outstretched arm seemed to say. When our fingers met, the electricity thrumming between us felt like free fall and relief.
“Okay, then.”
He didn’t plaster my body to his, and I was glad, not sure whether I’d have been able to take that much contact. My dress was long sleeved and high backed, offering few points of possible skin-on-skin contact. But his hand enfolded mine, and when his big palm ran down my spine, our breaths hitched at the same time.
“I can’t remember the last time I danced,” I murmured, mostly to myself. Not like this, for sure. It was barely related to the music, just an excuse for people to stand closer than appropriate.
“You don’t spend your Friday nights on dinner cruises?” “Do you?”
He tut-tutted. “You know where I spend my Friday nights, Rue.”
We fit well. Because of our heights, likely. I could smell the skin of his neck, clean and spice and something a little dark. “Do you really meet a different woman every Friday night?” It was an unexpectedly dismaying idea. What did I care if—
“Excuse me,” someone interrupted us, and we instantly took small steps back from each other, recovering the distance that had drifted closer. It was a middle-aged woman, pointing at the camera she was carrying. “May I take a picture of you two? It’s for Mr. Sommers’s retirement album.”
The idea of being in any part of Eric Sommers’s life repelled me on a visceral level. Eli, too, apparently. “You don’t want our picture,” he said amicably. “We both met Mr. Sommers ten minutes ago. It’d be a waste of space.”
“Oh.” The photographer frowned, then picked herself back up. “You’re just such a beautiful couple.” She left for more receptive pastures, and Eli gathered me close once again.
“She’s right,” he murmured softly. “About what?”
“You do look beautiful.” He didn’t sound happy about it. “It’s the dress. And the makeup.”
“No. It’s not.” His eyes lingered on me, then shifted away. I couldn’t bear the silence.
“Maybe we have displeased the jester god of hookups, and he won’t stop throwing us together until we sacrifice a quail at his altar.”
“I don’t think that’s what he wants from us,” Eli muttered under his breath. “And why is the jester god of hookups a dude?”
“I’m not sure, actually.”
We exchanged an amused look. A beat too long, and it was my turn to glance away and change the topic. “You’re trying to turn the board against Florence, then?”
“Nope.”
“You already admitted to that.”
When he shrugged, the ropes of his deltoids shifted under my fingers.
Backache, my ass. “What do you think the purpose of a board is?”
I’d asked Nyota the very same question that very morning, and received an only mildly disdainful response. Or maybe Nyota just came across as nicer via email. “They oversee. Make strategic decisions.”
“You’ve been reading. Nice.”
“Quite patronizing of you.”
“No, I . . .” He gave me a surprised look. “I’m sorry. It wasn’t my intention. But I did have the impression that you don’t concern yourself with anything admin related.” I didn’t like how correctly he had me pegged. I was in the industry for the science, and the games of thrones were beyond my pay grade. “Regardless of what you think of Harkness,” he continued softly, palm flexing on my back, “there’s no denying that CEOs need accountability and oversight from people with relevant experience.”
“Kline is Florence’s company. She knows what’s best for it. People like Eric Sommers know nothing about science.”
“No. But it’s not just about Florence and her petri dishes anymore, is it?
Kline has a staff of three hundred and sixty-four.” “And?”
“One bad decision can take away the paychecks of three hundred and sixty-four families.”
I couldn’t disagree with that. But I also knew Florence, whose actions were rational and well thought out. I wished she could be here to list them for Eli.
As if she’d been summoned, my phone buzzed with a text. “Excuse me,” I told him, slipping it out of my pocket.
Florence: You okay? I’m stuck with Sommers and his wife. Pls tell me Eli Killgore is not harassing you.
Rue: I’m fine. Eli and I are just making stilted conversation.
Florence: Just excuse yourself and walk away from him. He CANNOT be trusted.
I know, I thought, and suddenly the hall was suffocatingly hot. “I need some air,” I said.
Eli pointed somewhere I couldn’t quite see, and when I hesitated, his hand found my lower back and pressed forward, guiding me firmly through the throng, out to a stone balcony. It gave onto a small courtyard, and a pool, and what looked like—
“Fuckin’ golf courses,” Eli muttered. A laugh bubbled out of me, clearing my head. For once, the temperature was bearable, the night balmy and cool on my skin. Muffled through the glass doors, even the music seemed almost palatable. I leaned against the wall, tilting my head to take in the starry sky. Eli did the same with the high railing, facing me. He looked idle, but I knew he was not, and the app’s checklist flashed in my mind.
Kinks? a box asked, and he’d answered, If negotiated.
I was dying to know more about all of that. But Florence was right—he couldn’t be trusted.
“Has your brother been leaving you alone?” he asked. I nodded.
“Do you have a contingency plan in case he shows up at your apartment, or at Kline, or at your gym?” His voice was gruff. Like he wished he hadn’t been asking, but couldn’t help himself.
“Can’t believe I fooled you into thinking that I’m the gym type.” It was a half-baked attempt at teasing, the kind he’d responded well to during our first meeting, but his expression was serious. A strict lab supervisor, demanding to know why my bacteria culture was suddenly giant-blobbing all over the city. “I’ve asked a friend—who’s a lawyer—what my options are. I don’t have a plan, though.”
“Make one,” he ordered. And then shook his head, massaged his eyes, and repeated more gently, “Maybe you should make one.”
“It’s not that simple.”
“You need someone to call if—” “What about I call you?” I joked.
“Yes, please. Please, fucking do that. Do you want my number now, or .
. . ?” He stared, waiting for an answer. And then his eyes softened. The breeze picked up between us, and he kept looking, looking, looking.
Looking.
“It’s unsettling when you do that,” I said softly.
He turned away, chest heaving. “I’m sorry.” His Adam’s apple moved. “I forget to look at other things, when you’re around.”
“I’m sure I do the same.” I feel it, too.
He huffed out a silent laugh. “Has this happened to you before?”
I shook my head in a first, instinctive reply, then forced myself to slow down and think about it. I’d been attracted to men before, but attraction had seemed like a conscious choice on my part, a feeling to chase and feed. Generic. The product of focus and cultivation, more than this current that seemed to rejoice in sweeping me under. “Not like this. You?”
“Me, neither.” His long fingers drummed on the metal rail, the rhythm almost meditative. “You know what’s funny? A while ago, I almost got married.”
“Oh.” I pictured the kind of woman someone like Eli might fall for, but my mind could only conjure vaguely alluring traits. Smart. Socially adept.
A nice wholesome girl, willing to tame that hungry undercurrent of impatience in him. Proud builder of a solid investment portfolio, able to gently but firmly call him out on his passion for brain-injury-inducing sports at dinner parties. “I’m sorry,” I said, and when he laughed softly, I added, “No—I wasn’t trying to be a smart-ass. But ‘almost got married’ implies that something went wrong.”
“It definitely didn’t work out, but it was for the best. I think she’d agree, too. But since I met you, I’ve been thinking . . .” The sentence fizzled out. Eli glanced toward the city lights. The occasional skyscraper.
“What?”
“I tried to imagine a reality in which she and I had gone through with it. I’m still with her, I love her, we’re a family, and . . . and then I meet you by chance. And this thing between you and me, it’s there.” His eyes roamed the landscape, then landed on me. Contemplative. “I keep thinking about how fucking tragic it would be. For me. For her. I’ve never even been tempted to cheat on a partner, but this pull, it would still be in my head. You would still be in my head. Do you have to go through with it, for it to be cheating? How would I deal with . . . what would I do with all of this?”
He pointed at himself when he said this, but I knew he was referring to the gravitational energy between us. We were both caught in it.
“I think, the same way we’re dealing with it right now,” I said, trying to sound dismissive. Falling short. “Nothing is going to happen between us, even if you’re not married. You’re trying to take over my friend’s company. That’s not something I’ll ever be able to overlook.”
“Yeah.”
But what if this chemistry between us was a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity? What happened when the person who tore you apart was not the person you’d chosen to cherish? My concept of love was far from idealized, but this still seemed crucifying.
It’s all in your head, I told myself, but it was a lie. It was, at the very least, in both our heads. And now would have been a really good time for some elderly lady wearing an opal brooch to come out and interrupt this conversation, because Eli and I were starting to be absorbed in each other, and a reckless idea was germinating inside me, growing stronger by the second.
“Can I try something?” I asked, barely audible. He heard, though. “Try what?”
“I’m not sure yet. Can I?”
That half smile again. “Knock yourself out.”
I took a step forward, until the toes of our shoes nearly touched. I remembered the powerful shiver that had raked through me the other night, when I’d pushed up and kissed his cheek. The memory had to be magnifying the real thing, and a do-over would prove it and break the spell.
If I lifted my hand to his face, like this.
And traced the high line of his cheekbone with my thumb. And cupped his freshly shaven cheek in my palm.
If I touched him for seconds, or maybe minutes, and despite his heat, his darkening eyes, the wild, blistering feeling that pumped into me . . . if despite all of it we managed to still walk away from each other, then—
With a guttural sound, he pushed my back into the wall of the balcony, so fast that I found myself instantly dizzy, held upright by two things: the stone and Eli’s strong body.
He didn’t kiss me. Instead his hand wrapped around my jaw, and his thumb pressed into my lower lip, slow, inexorable. I had all the time in the world to push him away, but found myself urging him on.
Eli.
Anyone could find us.
But whatever you are about to do, do it anyway.
“Your damn mouth,” he murmured, “is the most obscenely lovely thing I’ve ever had the burden of seeing.”
The kiss that came after was open mouthed and unbound. We exhaled against each other’s lips, and when my hands closed around his nape, Eli groaned low in his throat. I moaned when he broke from me, but he simply found the hollow of my neck, the valley behind my ear. “I just want to make you come. Maybe come in the process, too. It’s all I fucking think about,” he said roughly. He nipped at my clavicle through the thin fabric of my dress. “But we’re on different sides of a fucking takeover, and apparently that’s too much to ask.”
I lost myself in the weight of his body against mine, his grip on my hips. It was a new, different kind of pleasure, at once drugging and screaming. He licked into my mouth, and I did the same to him, trying to remember if anything had ever felt like this.
“It’s disconcerting.” His breath was hot on my cheek. “But in the past seventy-two hours, I’ve found myself thinking over and over that we could
fuck however you wanted. For however long you wanted. Wherever you wanted. I’d consent to any and all demands, and it’d be so good that you’d probably just ruin me for the rest of my life, and I’d just sit there, grateful.” He let out a laugh. “Rue. It’s humbling, how bad I want you.” His thumb stroked my nipple. It was instantly hard, and we both shuddered into another rich, frustrated kiss. Because this wasn’t close enough.
“If you think that this is easier for me,” I gasped. “If you think that I want it any less—”
“No.” His hand trailed up my thigh, gathering my dress in its wake. His fingers were as shaky as my knees felt. “It’s not a game. Not for you, and not for me.” He reached the elastic of my underwear, lingered, and he could do—whatever. Anything. In that moment, I’d have let him do anything, begged him for something I didn’t even know. His thumb slid to the inside of my thigh, brushed against the cotton covering my mound, discovered how wet it was. He hummed his approval in my mouth, and when he found my clit, he drew one single, slow circle over it. He’d done barely anything, but the pleasure was so close, I was hurtling toward it anyway. I wanted this done. And Eli did, too, which meant that we—
Suddenly, I was cold. Because Eli had taken a step back and was taking another.
Trembling, I watched my dress drape over my thighs once again, feeling bereft.
“Not here,” he said, shaking his head as if shrugging off a haze. My lipstick was smeared on his lips. “And not like this.”
Silence settled between us. Where, then? And how? I didn’t ask out loud, but he answered anyway.
“Tomorrow,” he rasped. He moved closer, and I could once again feel his heat. His hand rose to my cheek in an involuntary twitch, then pulled away, as if Eli was scared by what he might do. By his lack of control. “Seven. In the hotel lobby. You know which one.”
I swallowed. “I don’t—”
“Then don’t. It’s your decision.” He was close. I hoped he’d kiss me again. I needed him to kiss me again. “But, Rue, if you come, we settle this. Once and for all.”
He tore his eyes away and stalked back inside.
I was alone on the balcony, chest heaving, hands unsteady in the jasmine-scented night air.
